Daedric Knowledge
by Clairfir
Summary: A mage's pursuit for the secrets held within Daedric treasures. Spoilers for most Daedric questlines, as well as the Thieves Guild questline. Mercer also receives considerable attention eventually.
1. Souls, Origins, Routes

A/N: Alright, so here is Ch1 Redux, which is basically what was the first two chapters, combined, rewritten and, in my opinion, just overall a lot better. Obviously this is going to mess up the chapter numbering until I sort out/rewrite the other chapters, so please bear with me for a little while.

For new people, hi! This was conceived through an inordinate amount of time playing Skyrim yet completing nothing substantial. There will be content warnings at the beginning of chapters as necessary, but please be aware that this is rated M, and all in all, isn't particularly light-hearted. On the occasion that there is violence, there is _violence_, and on the occasion there is smut, there is _smut_, and probably also some more violence. Regardless, I hope you enjoy your stay!

* * *

**Daedric Knowledge**

* * *

_Chapter 1 - Souls, Origins, Routes._

"I wish I could tell Aren where to shove it."

We're at The Frozen Hearth, - myself, Enthir, and Nelacar - entertaining our mutual distaste for the College's restrictions. A once clear table is cluttered with empty plates, bottles, a half eaten wheel of cheese, as well as several soul gem fragments which Enthir was using for a _demonstration_; all of which are now sitting inactive and forgotten, much like our previous conversation. We've thoroughly crossed over into the sullen side of inebriation. Nelacar is resting his face in his hands, the hood of his robes slipping further and further back to reveal an incredibly receding hairline; a spectacle I'm having quite a bit of difficulty not commenting on. How he manages to have long, lustrous shoulder-length blonde hair, yet nothing on his scalp is all but a mystery. Enthir appears equally amused, but given his own tragic excuse for a mohawk, he might just be jealous.

"When was the last time anyone in the College," Enthir pauses, forcing down a small burp, his speech understandably slower, slurred, "did anything that was even _remotely_ interesting?" He eyes both of us as Haran brings over what's likely to be our fifth, maybe sixth round of drinks. Mead, Honningbrew, and as far as I'm concerned, the _only _mead worth drinking.

"Arniel seemed to be working on some interesting stuff."

"Yeah, right until he _disappeared_. Careless, really." The impartial pragmatism is part of why Enthir and I get along so well, as business associates as well as drinking company. He is a welcome change in the face of an institution full of unimaginative, obsequious affiliates.

"Mm, I wouldn't mind meeting someone who wasn't _afraid_ of progress; most of these people don't even want to make money, let alone engage themselves in anything particularly ambitious. What was the last thing one of the apprentices came up with, a refilling potion bottle, or something?" I wouldn't be scoffing if I didn't already _know_ that an Alchemist based in Windhelm is fruitlessly pursuing the thing as we speak, not to mention, Alchemy technically isn't magic; you would think that new College applicants would at least be somewhat versed in their areas of interest, but apparently not.

"That's actually not a bad idea."

"It isn't my idea, and _you_ only want it so that you can drink, without paying." My idea or not, the discussion reinvites several possibilities in my mind; replenishable enchanting materials, possible ways to bypass the requirement of stronger souls, expediting the learning and application of more complicated enchantments. The ideas are, as they have always been, one essential component away from actualisation, and ultimately the source of my unending dissatisfaction.

"Either of you know anything about research on souls? Substitutes used in enchantments, maybe even gems that don't break once the soul's been consumed?" It's a long shot, but if there's any time to get information out of either of them, it's now.

Enthir merely shrugs, but from Nelacar I receive... nothing. Come to think about it, he's been even quieter than usual, ever since we brought up the topic of research. We never spend much time discussing our pasts, though given his silence, we might have been dancing over a raw spot this entire time. The Altmer is practically shut down, golden eyes glazed over, gazing into his tankard. His voice is a whisper; we have to lean in closer in order to hear him clearly.

"I know a way."

I suspect, if we weren't in this exact setting at this exact time, this exchange would have never occurred, and I subsequently would not have set off for Ilinalta's Deep at first sign of daylight.

* * *

I am the only child of two talented, if somewhat short-sighted, mages. Father was a Dunmer; shorter and slimmer than most, which explains his career choices and leanings towards the Mysticism and Restoration schools of magic. Mysticism had stopped being considered a valid school of magic at some point during his affiliation with the College of Winterhold, and is likely part of the reason why he left. He spent a great deal of my youth lecturing on how dispel, detect life and soul traps - to name a few - belonged within the Mysticism school, and that treating them otherwise was akin to fighting with a blunt blade, or blocking with a paper shield. He was always a strong believer that mastery over schools of magic were mutually exclusive, and that each spell was edged with well-defined boundaries which prevented the possibility of overlapping effects.

Mother specialised as an enchanter, and possessed an unending fascination with weaponry, despite not being much of a fighter herself. She made full use of her abilities by enchanting weapons and armour for the locals of Dawnstar, as well as her multitude of contacts across Skyrim. Despite being a tiny Breton woman, she managed to intimidate any possible opposition simply by the force of her personality. For her, magic was simply a tool; a bridge which accelerates the progression of practical endeavours. As a result, she never derived any enjoyment from knowledge for the sake of knowledge, nor did she have any opinions on magic as a concept.

My own opinions on magical theory have diverged substantially from both of theirs, and I'm quite glad that they both passed before these differences in ideologies manifested into debate.

Their relationship was, in my opinion, sickeningly, restrictively affectionate. They ran an enchanting business together which, in theory, would involve Father supplying the necessary souls, and Mother using them in her enchantments. In practice, however, they insisted on accompanying each other on their respective adventures, severely hampering their productivity. I suppose they appreciated the company of each other over making coin, or even advancing their abilities, but it's something I never did quite understand. Looking back on it, falling victim, together, to one too many frost trolls on a soul harvesting trip was a suitable end to the both of them.

By the time they did die, I was already skilled and matured enough to take over their business, effectively absorbing all of their contacts and connections, which I have been maintaining and expanding since. On the occasion I tired of remaining in the same place, I would spend some time adventuring through Skyrim. Repetitive, meaningless combat with bandits, wolves, trolls, and other unpleasants only held my interest for a few years, and I was more concerned with self-preservation than seeking out more challenging opponents. Perhaps if it would have been different if I had any substantial experience in using weapons and close-quarters action, but that generally isn't the best position for a waify mage to be in. My decision to join the Mages' College was multiple-fold: to further refine my knowledge, gain exposure to spells optimised for combat, and for additional connections.

My abilities improved exponentially with access to College resources. Initially my focus was rounding out my existing capabilities, keeping my secondary education as _unbiased_ as I possibly could. Transferring what I could cast into enchantments had always been second nature, and thus the additional tutelage augmented the amount, and variety of the enchanting services I could provide. These were, and remain, of course, independent of the College itself; I see little reason to share my hard-earned profits. Having some level of proficiency over most textbook spells was all well and good, but I found their structured approach restrictive and lacking. The years that followed were intense, extensive time and effort invested into developing spells especially for my own use, through the combination of multiple effects, and the manipulation of magicka to fuel them. While there are costs to bending certain rules of magic to my liking, given the gains, no payment is too high.

Unfortunately, my life has felt stagnant since. Financial security is a given, and enchanting has become largely mechanical, no longer providing any real level of gratification. I lack a sense of direction as to where to go from here, nor could I ever allow myself to lounge in complacency. Ultimately this is what makes me so eager to engage myself with something new. If nothing else, attaining Azura's Star should prove to be a suitable, if temporary reprieve.


	2. Chapter 3

_Chapter 3_

While I completed my goal of extracting the Star from Ilinalta's Deep, there isn't anything interesting in particular to say about it. Certainly, there was fighting to be had, and the activity in itself was enjoyable, but other than a few cuts and scrapes, and that one conjurer who managed to singe the bottom of my robes - which I'm still a tad upset about - nothing really happened that is worth mentioning.

Given that Ilinalta's Deep is a fair way away from Winterhold, I make a few short stops to clients in Whiterun and Windhelm en-route back to The Frozen Hearth.

Nelacar looks almost surprised; he clearly didn't expect me to make the trip back. He's assisted with some of my research before, so I suppose he has doubts about mages who can't heal themselves and their survivability. Whatever concerns he might have had are ignored pretty quickly as I hand him the broken Star. After a few moments examining it, he explains that the soul of his old associate is still inside the Star, and needs to be eradicated before the Star can become usable.

"A special kind of soul trap."

Just the thought of being pulled into a different plane - inside the Star itself - makes gooseflesh erupt along my spine, a mix of titillation and trepidation. I _must _accept. Not only to return the Star to functionality, but to attempt to sate my unending curiosity, my unquenchable thirst for something _new_.

My decision is made without any semblance of hesitation.

"Hold still. This might sting a little."


	3. Chapter 4

A/N: The bulk of this chapter is pretty much magical violence!

* * *

_Chapter 4_

Pulled in all directions, funnelled through which no corporeal form could possibly fit, there are no parallels to physical sensation which could adequately describe a live soul trap. As my form emerges inside the realm of the Star, it feels familiar, yet much more malleable. With time - a luxury I don't have in this case - I believe that I would be able to bend my form to my own wishes here, unbound by the constraints of Nirn.

Time for idle contemplation is limited, however, as Malyn and his thralls prepare to erase the intruder to their realm.

They all appear to be spellcasters, which give me the advantage. All I have to do is get a barrier up and-

A bolt of lightning hits me square in the chest, throwing my body back into a crystalline pillar. The pillar shatters on impact, shards pooling around my feet as I force myself upright. The jolt, and the spell itself, felt nothing as they would on the mortal plane; this new form of pain would take just as long to build up any form of stoic resilience, something - I continue to remind myself - I do not have an abundance of.

The Dremora closest to me is preparing a spell, fireball, judging by the gestures. Given the success of my previous strategy, a sustained barrier - the defence of mage armour with the range of a ward, invisible unless in use - is not the best way to tackle this situation. The fireball leaves his hand, heading true to my direction.

An upward, backhand swipe, moments before contact. The projectile's trajectory is inverted, ball of flame hurtling straight back to its caster with renewed force. Left hand outstretched, a seemingly unending torrent of projectiles, needle thin, razor sharp, directed straight at the nearest foe.

I need to move quickly. While this plane does seem more attuned to the use of magic, extended use of multiple complex spells can't be sustainable. The deflections - effectively conjuring a small shield, effective only seconds surrounding impact - are effective, but are heavily dependent on my own reflexes; something I would rather not rely on.

Dash towards the next enemy. Sidestep his attack. Enforce a barrier to prevent movement. Close the distance. From an open handed right hook emerges the tip of an ethereal blade, piercing his skull before dissipating as quickly as its materialisation. Malyn should be the only one left.

My legs give out as I'm forced onto one knee; the left has been pierced by an ice spike. Any bearing of mobility or strength is drained as the cold courses through me. Healing isn't an option - it never will be - so I must keep a sustained barrier active for any upcoming attacks.

Only there aren't any further attacks, only footsteps, accompanied by a sound I am incredibly familiar with. He's preparing a soul trap. He doesn't seem to be in any particular hurry, likely assuming that he's already won. A common mistake, which should give me enough time to get a barrier up.

He stops once he is within casting range. He is taking far too long, savouring his delusions of victory. My right hand shoots towards his ankle. While my fingers don't reach, the blade that erupts from my hand closes the distance, rending bone and tendon - or whatever the equivalents to such things are here - as he falters. I use the momentum to pull down, the force of the barrier holding him in place as I bear down my - meagre - weight on top of him . One swipe across his neck and his head is severed, the remains of his body soon fading into the void.

Any remaining adrenaline dissipates quickly. It's simplest to just remain laying on the ground, awaiting extraction.

Nelacar had better get me out of here soon; who knows how prolonged injuries will affect my physical body.


	4. Chapter 5

A/N: Wound imagery.

* * *

_Chapter 5  
_

"Good, you're back."

It takes a few moments for my vision to adjust. I flex my hands, crack my knuckles, making sure that - if nothing else - my hands are in order. Judging by Nelacar's face, the task was successful, but I need to make sure.

"Is the Star functional?"

Confirming the affirmative, I go to step towards him, in order to retrieve the Star.

Sure enough, I lose my footing as I put pressure on my left leg. Fantastic.

Nelacar helps me sit upright as I pull off my boot, steadily rolling my leggings up over my calves to expose the injured knee.

There is a tear, about the width of a spear, just above the kneecap. The main concern, however, is that _it isn't bleeding_. The opening has an eerie green hue, a colour also shared by the veins surrounding the wound, as if the flesh itself is _rotting_.

This isn't something I can treat, even if I were capable of casting curative spells.

"I don't suppose you could stabilise this and then help me get to Colette.."

He gets to work immediately so that I am least capable of limping back to the College. We've been associates - mainly through liquor - long enough for him to know that I can't even heal simple scrapes, let alone otherworldly lacerations. He also assisted in my work in tempering reactions to pain and stress, thus my outward composure isn't a cause of concern for him.

It takes a while limping back to the College, even with Nelacar supporting most of my weight. He even tracks down Colette for me once we get to my quarters; an appreciated, if unnecessary, gesture before he hands me the Star as he takes his leave.

After enduring a lengthy lecture from Colette about the beneficial qualities of the Restoration school, she informs me that I'll have to be housebound for at least _two weeks_, receiving daily treatment to flush out the infection. It's only after which that the wound can be left to close naturally, which likely means an additional two weeks before I can carry out my regular activities without much pain. I'm less than pleased.

I arrange for books on daedric artifacts, advanced enchanting, and combination spell theory to be brought to my quarters, as well as filled soul gems and enchantable materials.

Just because I'm crippled doesn't mean I can't get to work.


	5. Chapter 6

_Chapter 6_

If there are advantages to being incapacitated for a month, - not that there are any - it's being able to freely immerse yourself in activities without being overtaken by the concerns of everyday life. My time was spent in two ways: reading on the various Daedric Princes and their artifacts, and trying - with very little success - to apply the replenishing nature of the Black Star on other vessels.

The Star in itself is incredibly difficult to work with. It performs its function of storing souls well enough, but I can't seem to learn its enchantment for myself, which in turn makes it impossible to apply the enchantment on other objects.

In times of frustration, I would turn my attention to reading about other artifacts; maybe their enchantments would be easier to learn? I can never remain wholly focussed on one thing for very long, nor was I making progress with the Star, so pursuing other artifacts seemed like a productive course of action.

Of course, that left the issue of which artifact to seek first. I certainly don't have the ability to go toe-to-toe with a Daedric Prince, of all things, so the more violent Princes - Boethiah, Molag Bal, Hircine, Mehrunes Dagon - should be avoided, until I can gather willing followers to accompany me. I am also not prepared for plots of deception or mental decay, so Vaermina, Sheogorath, Sanguine, Clavicus Vile and Mephala will have to wait until my mental resistances are stronger.

That left Meridia, Namira, Hermaeus Mora, Peryite and Nocturnal.

I was immediately drawn to Nocturnal. As well as being one of the Princes least likely to murder me, the possibility of applying the traits of the Skeleton Key - an unbreakable lockpick - onto other objects is sure to be incredibly lucrative if marketed to the right groups.

Given that Nocturnal is the patron of thieves, I decided that getting acquainted with the Thieves Guild would be the best course of action. Unfortunately, Enthir had lost most contact with the Guild since their latest Guildmaster came to power, so he couldn't do much in the way of arranging a meeting for me. He did, however, have information - for a price, of course, but I'm happy to pay - regarding the current state of the Guild, and that they are actively looking for merchants, as well as recruits.

I had plenty of time to finalise my preparations while my leg was healing, and thus set off for Riften as soon as I was able.


	6. Chapter 7

_Chapter 7_

As expected, the normal, hardworking people of Riften aren't particularly fond of the Thieves Guild. In particular, the owner of the general store, Bersi, and the innkeeper, Keerava, seemed particularly distressed. Apparently some fellow who had arrived a few days before I did had been harassing their businesses on behalf of the Thieves Guild. It took some careful probing - I don't want them to know I intend to _join_ the Guild, of all things - to establish who exactly could get me into the Guild itself.

Brynjolf, a red haired Nord - I wasn't even aware Nords could have red hair - who runs a stall in the market during the day.

And so, I'm discussing jewellery-making with an Argonian named Madesi. I can see Brynjolf's stall from the corner of my eye, and most of my attention is directed at trying to figure out the best way to approach him. The Nord is trying to sell some kind of "Falmer Blood Elixir" to an unfortunate passerby. I'm trying to be discreet, but if Brynjolf really is a person of power inside the Guild, he's likely to have already noticed me.

Madesi brings up the person who ran the - currently empty - stall opposite him, and how he had recently been arrested for being in possession of stolen goods. Madesi expresses that said person - I think his name was Brand-Shei - didn't appear to be the thieving type and may have been the victim of foul play. I suppose I'd be more concerned if I weren't actively trying to join the group who were, most likely, responsible.

I notice that whoever was talking to Brynjolf has finally moved on, and use this opportunity to approach the stall.

"What about you, lass? Do you have a man in your life in need of a miracle elixir?"

It takes quite a bit of my self control to not burst into laughter right then and there.

"May I ask what's in it?" Why do Nords have to be so tall; I have to arch my neck just to look him in the eyes.

"Nothing but the purest, genuine Falmer blood, only 20 septim for a taste, lass." He has a very interesting accent, and I can definitely see how people could get charmed by this man, but his promotional techniques are lacking. Anyone with even rudimentary knowledge of Alchemy should know that on its own, Falmer blood doesn't do very much.

"You know what would make you more money..," His eyes narrow, trying to figure out what exactly I'm getting at.

"If you bottled some kind of inexpensive draught of, for example's sake, crushed mountain flowers, and marketed that as your," - I raise my index and middle fingers, - "'Elixir', then you would have a lot more repeat customers; drinking the potion would make their bodies feel all tingly temporarily, which is all they need to believe that your concoction does what you say it does."

For several moments, we both say nothing. Brynjolf's arms are crossed, and he's sizing me up, weighing options in his mind. He takes a step closer, making sure that we aren't within earshot of any passersby.

"I happen to be part of an organisation that appreciates enterprising individuals." His voice is low, conspiratorial, far smoother than when he was peddling his wares, and not at all unpleasant.

"Shall we talk business, then?"


	7. Chapter 8

_Chapter 8_

Brynjolf leads me to the upper level of The Bee and Barb, where we sit at a vacant table. There doesn't appear to be any other patrons on this level of the inn, which should allow us to speak freely. However, they only seem to sell Black-Briar mead here, and it's a real challenge, hiding my grimace every time I take a sip.

"You're going to have to learn to enjoy that stuff if you want to make a living in Riften, lass." Damn, here I was thinking that I was hiding my disgust so well.

"I'll be honest;" - honesty from a thief? The world must really be coming to an end - "our organisation has seen better days. Before we can have any form of agreement, we need to establish what you can offer us." That's fair enough, I suppose. I wouldn't let some skill-less hack into my organisation, either.

"I'm an enchanter by trade. For a small fee, I'm willing to provide my services to your organisation and its members. In return, I simply wish for access to the Guild's resources and any information you might have about the locations of magical artifacts." While it's not necessarily the best idea to lay all my cards on the table like that, these people are going to find out what I'm after sooner or later. Simpler to let them know of my intentions before they have any reason to murder, or steal, from me.

"Artifacts?"

"Yes. The one I am particularly focussed on that the moment is Nocturnal's Skeleton Key," Brynjolf looks suspicious, but I raise my hand as request that he hears me out. "I don't intend to use the Key myself; I'd like to be able to transfer its qualities onto regular objects and sell the results. Of course, if I had the Guild's assistance in the matter, the fruits of my research could be shared _exclusively_ by your organisation."

I have to contain my chuckle of amusement as I see my companion mentally processing the possibilities of an entire clan of thieves, completely unbound by the constraints of locks. I can almost see the chests full of gold reflected in his emerald eyes.

"While it's a fantastic proposition, lass," - I'm certain he calls all the ladies that, but that doesn't make it any less distracting - "we haven't heard anything about the Skeleton Key for over twenty years."

"That isn't an issue. So long as I can be reimbursed for the services I'm providing the Guild and I have enough space to conduct my research, I don't care if the Skeleton Key turns up in three days or three decades."

"Then we have an accord."

We shake hands, exchange names, and take our leave.

Walking through the darkening streets of Riften, I'm being led to where I assume is the entrance to the Guild itself. Circling around the Temple of Mara, we stop in front of a small mausoleum, situated at the centre of the local graveyard. The building is decorated with a distinct symbol: a circle, encased within a long, vertical diamond, akin to an eye held on its side. Brynjolf presses a button on the centre of the grave inside and the ground shifts underneath us, revealing a chute leading underground.

Ever the gentleman, he ushers me into the tunnel, following along soon after.

"I'll introduce you to the Guildmaster and all of my other associates before we get you set up."


	8. Chapter 9

_Chapter 9_

Emerging into the Cistern, my new friend clearly wasn't joking when he said that the Thieves Guild is going through some tough times. The place is practically in shambles: threadbare beds, dilapidated furniture, _one_ cooking pot over a shocking excuse for a fire. The only area which seemed relatively maintained was a small corridor leading to a large set of heavy golden double-doors, probably a vault of some sort.

I smile cordially at two of the Guild members observing the new arrival. Both of their faces are shrouded by identical hoods made of mottled leather. The one with the bow is clearly a Bosmer. The other one is human, either a smaller-than-average Nord or a larger-than-average Imperial, I'll have to find out later. I can see other members scattered around the open area, some engaged in target practice while others are sharpening their weapons on - I'm surprised they can even afford one - a grindstone. Whether they have yet to notice our presence or they don't care to observe, I'm not sure.

As Brynjolf leads me to the centre of the open area, my attention is immediately drawn to the figure emerging from the desk, which is situated at the mouth of the walkway leading to the vault. Breton, judging by his facial features, though certainly taller than most I've met. His tread appears heavy, yet I can hear no sound of footsteps as he crosses the distance to meet us. He is wearing the same shade of armour as Brynjolf, so he must be someone of relative importance. Fastened to his left hip is a Dwarven blade, about the same length as the distance from my lower ribs to the floor, and something I definitely do _not_ want to be at the other end of. As he comes closer, I swear that I could feel the faintest pulse of _magic_, but the thought is forced out of my mind by Brynjolf's hands on my shoulders.

I'm not a fan of unnecessary touching, but I let it pass this time as Brynjolf presents me to the Breton who has just joined us. He's suddenly very enthusiastic, as if trying to impart the idea, _here is the person who will solve all our problems!_

"This," the Breton interrupts anything Brynjolf may have had planned to say. Never have I heard so much contempt etched into a single word before. "Had better not be anything like the last recruit you brought us, Brynjolf." His voice is sandpaper dredged in ground glass, its rough cadences reverberating in my ears and sending gooseflesh along my spine. "It took weeks to get the smell of flowers out of this place."

I turn to Brynjolf enquiringly, but the look he gives me is one that reads, _I'll tell you later_. The shorter of the two thieves is circling around us - apparently appraising new recruits is a common technique employed by the Thieves Guild - before he comes to rest once again in front of me.

"You don't look like a thief."

"_No_, was it my robes that gave it away?" The Breton's scowl turns into a full-blown glare and to be honest, I'm just as surprised by my own actions. Sassing superiors never used to be one of my defining traits, but that said, I've never had a superior who made their scorn so painfully obvious. We continue to glare at each other for a few moments - I can't decide whether his eyes are grey or green - before Brynjolf steps in to cut the rising tension.

"Mercer, she's an _enchanter_. She's offered her services to the Guild in exchange for resources. Lass, this is Mercer Frey, Guildmaster." Fantastic, I just sassed the _leader_ of the Thieves Guild.

"Hmph," the more this man - Mercer - speaks, the more I'm convinced that he is the reason for this organisation's poor fortune, "I assume she has been briefed on the rules?"

"I don't exactly have the _skills_ to be able to break them."

"That remains to be seen."

Brynjolf decides that now is a good time to move on to meeting the other Guild members, lest I rip their Guildmaster apart - though I don't think he knows about the extent of my magical abilities, so the mental image of using my bare hands to beat him up is an amusing one.

* * *

A/N: 90% of my Mercer infatuation and/or headcanon can be attributed to Metrophor ( ~metrophor) and her collection of Mercer-related fic. They're some of the best things I've ever read, so go read them if you haven't done so already!

Also, if you're interested in why the Cistern was smelling like flowers for a short period of time, ( s/8447831/1/The_Courting_of_Tamriels_Grumpiest_Thief) has what you desire.

Also also, in my first version of this, I accidentally wrote Niruin to be an Altmer. That's what I get for the only time I don't look something up.


	9. Chapter 10

_Chapter 10_

The next few months passed with little consequence. Most of my time was spent enchanting, both for the Guild and for my external clientele. The work made sure that I did not linger on the frustrations of the Star and the lack of hints as to the location of the Skeleton Key, though I am not in the least pleased about my lack of progress. The members I'm closer to, Brynjolf, Delvin, Tonilia, Cain - the Dragonborn, who has a painful crush on the Guildmaster -, and Cynric are all aware of the manner of objects I'm after, but none of them seemed to have any real information which could point me in the right direction.

The Thieves Guild as a whole, however, seems to have improved since when I joined. This can partially be attributed to the newest recruit, Cain, who through his sheer enthusiasm and persistence for the Guildmaster's affections, finished multiple jobs for Maven Black-Briar, as well as spread the Guild's influence around Skyrim through shill and burglary jobs.

He also agreed to sell me his house, Honeyside, as he prefers sleeping in the Cistern in order to be closer to Mercer. How anyone can possibly be so enamoured with a person, I'll never know, but since it meant my own lodging in Riften, I felt it best not to question the Dragonborn's logic. I sent a missive to Enthir to forward more of my materials here, given my additional space and privacy. The privacy didn't improve my insomnia, but until the day my brain decides to shut down entirely, I doubt anything will help.

On the occasion I left Riften in order to visit other clients, I agreed to completing numbers jobs for the Guild. The merchants I targeted all know and trust me well enough to give me access to their ledgers, so making the changes was a relatively simple task. The combined efforts in spreading Guild influence resulted in two additional merchants joining me in the Ragged Flagon.

This naturally left the Guild in high spirits, and we, as a result, shared many an evening of recreation, the majority of the members enjoying drinks at the Flagon. Of course, the _leader_ of the Thieves Guild never saw it necessary to attend these congregations, and after multiple evenings of being shooed away, I stopped attempting to include him in our frivolities. The rest of the Guild, however, grew much closer as a result, and it wasn't long before everybody knew about my ambitions, and my lack of success as late towards pursuing them.

One particular evening, Vekel suggested something worth considering: he had heard rumours of an Orcish tribe a few hours walk from Riften, who had apparently been "cursed" by Malacath, their patron Daedra. Assisting the tribe could produce some manner of reward, especially if Malacath truly is observing them.

The subsequent week, I did some additional research on Malacath, Orcs, and Orcish culture in order to prepare for my trip. The artifact in Malacath's possession, Volendrung, appears to be a giant hammer. I doubt I could even lift it, let alone carry it all the way to Riften. Further, the prospect of fighting Orcs - and who knows what else - on my own is not a pleasant one.

After establishing all of the details, I decided to invite Brynjolf - he's easily the biggest Guild member - with me to Largashbur. It initially took some convincing, but given how well the Guild was progressing of late, he could afford to be away for a few days.


	10. Chapter 11

_Chapter 11_

After he turned on us, it became abundantly clear that the chieftain of the Orcish tribe, Yamarz, was pretty much the entire reason for the clan's misfortunes. With Shagrol's Warhammer in tow, we begin the trek back to Largashbur.

"Are you sure that wound is going to be alright, lass?" He's referring to the gash running across my upper arm, currently wrapped in bandages to stop further bleeding. I'm honestly more upset about my torn robes. Once again I'm having more than a passing thought to receive some training in close combat, using weapons, dodging, blocking, whathaveyou. It would certainly improve my glaring combat weaknesses, as well as hopefully save on the amount of replacement robes I have to arrange for whenever I go out. Unfortunately, the Guild trainers specialise in sneakier endeavours, most of which I don't have any real desire in learning.

"Lass?"

Belatedly, I realise I'm drifting and reassure my russet-haired travelling companion of my wellbeing with a smile.

The remainder of our walk is spent discussing the Guild, its progression, and Brynjolf's history within it. He certainly seems more sympathetic towards Mercer, though I can't be certain if it's out of respect or _fear_. While I certainly don't doubt the Guildmaster's abilities, - he punched Cain out cold during that incident with the corn - I feel that he could run his organisation in a much more efficient, lucrative way. Instead, his concerns seem devoted to intimidation tactics and appearing as unpleasant as possible. It's as if he doesn't even care about the syndicate that he himself is running. Brynjolf assures me that I'll get used to Mercer eventually, but I have doubts as to how I'll manage that when the only times he speaks to me is when he either wants something enchanted, or when he's shooing me away in lieu of things he just so happens to be "quite busy" with.

When we arrive at Largashbur and place the hammer on the altar, I am incredibly relieved that Malacath - it's amazing to be in the company of a Daedric Prince, even if Malacath is only one out of a technicality - has his attention primarily on the Orcish tribe and assigning their new leader. Given my latent tendency to anger people of power, antagonising a being who could probably break me in half with one hand is not something I'm aspiring to do.

The hammer sitting on the altar transforms at Malacath's departure. What was initially a simple warhammer of Orcish design has transformed into something far larger. The hammerhead is even bigger than a human cranium, covered in numerous small spikes while three larger spikes sit on the top and two sides of the weapon. From the centre emanates an eerie red glow, I can feel the power radiating from the weapon, even as I stand more than an arm's length away.

"So.., that hammer, does the tribe have any use for it?" I ask Atub - the clan priestess who had initially communed with Malacath - tentatively. It's not something that would be easily overlooked if we stole it, they'd be far too likely to spot the Nord wearing Thieves Guild armour and his mage associate making a mad dash for Riften. If my request is denied, I can probably work out some kind of enchantment-exchange deal with the tribe in return for access to the hammer.

"Consider it your reward for assisting our tribe. You'll also find the other strongholds open to you in the future." Suddenly it feels like I was preparing contingency plans for no reason, I'm incredibly relieved that this resolved without any real issues. I thank Brynjolf for the umpteenth time for helping with the hammer as he pulls it off the altar.

"It's certainly heavier than before." If _Brynjolf_ - probably the largest person I'm acquainted with - thinks it's heavy, it certainly must be heavy.

The return to Riften takes slightly longer than it usually would, as I'm careful to allow Brynjolf sufficient rest over the course of the trip. It's the least I can do, given that I'm essentially using him as my pack mule.

Climbing down the ladder to the Cistern, I'm laughing at Brynjolf's story about one of the earlier recruits who literally had their clothes stolen from him, leaving him traipsing around the entire Guild with nothing on, pleading for assistance which nobody would give him. We turn the corner and head straight for the Flagon, so that Brynjolf can set Volendrung down in my work area.

Our path is blocked, however, by Mercer Frey, - the last person I wanted to see - emerging from the entrance. As soon as he catches sight of us, his - already quite thin - lips pull downwards into an even thinner line, and he crosses his arms over his chest, eyeing us with incredible disdain.

"This doesn't look like Guild business." It still baffles me how he can impart so much menace with just a few words. If Brynjolf weren't with me, I'd actually be a little concerned for my safety.

"I was just helping the lass with her project."

"I don't recall ever giving you permission to remove my associates from their duties to assist in your _petty_ projects." Never have I wanted to punch someone this badly. I have to clench my hands into fists in order to force a smile, but the daggers in my voice are impossible to disguise.

"I'm sure you will appreciate their value once I'm able to enchant unbreakable lockpicks for yourself and your Guild members, _Master_ Frey." I try to smile up at him, but it likely looks like a leer, given how riled I am. I don't even bother searching his face for a reaction. "Now, if there isn't anything else..?" Without waiting for a response, I give Mercer a curt nod as I step around Tamriel's most unpleasant thief and make a beeline for the door behind him, holding the it open for Brynjolf to pass through.

I'll show him, _petty projects_.

* * *

A/N: If you're interested in Cain's corny shenanigans, ( s/8451214/1/Corn) has what you seek.

As it happens, my working title for this chapter was, "Anika once again avoids writing action or anything remotely interesting."


	11. Chapter 12

A/N: A _smidge_ of violence.

* * *

_Chapter 12_

The following weeks were spent submerged in my work with renewed fervour, taking on additional enchanting jobs as well as progressing on my artifact research. More evenings than not were spent in my workshop in the Flagon, working late into the night and stopping only when my body had given out due to exertion. It was certainly a more productive use of my time than laying in Honeyside, slave to insomnia.

Dealing with Volendrung was almost painfully simple. At its simplest form, it's just an augmented absorb stamina enchantment, and learning to reproduce it really did not feel like a great achievement. I suppose someone with the actual ability to use the weapon effectively would give it its proper dues, but as it stands, the weapon is now just an immense eyesore in my already cluttered work area.

I'm at a loss. The Black Star is a constant reminder of how slowly I've been progressing, and what should feel like an accomplishment - unlocking Volendrung - hangs tauntingly over me, a constant intimation of my limitations: _this is the extent of your abilities_. My only reprieve is in immersing myself in responsibilities, enchanting jobs, guild tasks, anything that can perpetuate the delusion that I'm succeeding in _something_. My contact with people outside of business has deteriorated and I've found myself declining most social gatherings.

Climbing out of the Cistern, into the graveyard, I'm walking back to Honeyside. I need to retrieve a book, and I may as well stay the night since the patrons of the Flagon are making an unruly amount of noise. I shouldn't complain, since I was the one who refused to join them, but staying would make concentrating quite difficult. It's relatively late, and thus the market is empty as I step into the open area.

An arrow whizzes past my ear, missing its target by a hair's breadth. Alerted, I begin preparing my barrier while scanning the area. _No guards_. Not a single identifiable resident of Riften, at that. From the shadows emerges three targets, one with a bow, two with weapons. I'm not in the least interested in finding out who they are or what they want.

Perhaps violence will improve my mood.

I head straight for the archer; the barrier will stop the others from getting too close. He notices my approach, and is fumbling for a dagger to replace his weapon. Detonate the barrier. The swordsman is sent crashing into one of the market stalls while the axeman hurtles into a railing, the wood splintering on collision. The marksman doesn't have long to react before he's turned into a pincushion, the projectiles soon dissipating to leave a corpse riddled with tiny holes, bleeding out onto the stone. The two warriors make the correct choice, running away.

I exhale deeply, cracking my knuckles. I enjoyed that far more than I should have. Putting it out of my mind, I turn on my heel, only to force myself to a stop, mere inches from crashing into another figure.

"That's an interesting trick." I don't even need to look up to know who it is. Any warmth or adrenaline from the previous fight disappears quickly and I'm forced to hold back a shiver.

Mercer is wearing a hooded cloak - I wasn't even aware he had gone somewhere - which reaches the ground. The construction makes it impossible for him to be identified from afar and, as I just found out, makes blending into the shadows a simple task. "Didn't even know defensive magic like that existed."

"I can enchant you a ring or something with it if you like..." My fingernails are digging into my palms as I force myself into some semblance of composure, but every part of me is imploring that I _run_, despite it not being an option.

"No." Confused, I raise my head in search of some form of explanation. His facial features are shrouded by the hood; I must be imagining the smirk.

"You're going to teach me."

Before I have a chance to interject, he's already walking away.

"Training room. Tomorrow evening, once everyone is asleep. Don't be late."


	12. Chapter 13

A/N: This is the last chapter with stupid Mercer for a little while, honest! Oh, and here there be another _smidge_ of violence.

* * *

_Chapter 13_

Never have I spent an entire day feeling this anxious.

I've never taught anybody anything, never been part of any collaborative magical projects. I don't even own any books on the subject matter, nor is there enough time to arrange for spell education books to be sent here from the College. As far as I'm concerned, magic isn't even something you should do with other people.

As such, a large portion of my day was spent sitting in my workshop, my overactive imagination picturing a million different ways things were going to go horribly wrong. A large portion of them involved being impaled on that incredibly dangerous-looking Dwarven blade Mercer always carries around. Others concerned themselves with using the wrong spells, spells going awry, not being able to impart the necessary knowledge and other technical issues which can be attributed to my _having no idea what I'm doing_. The other - probably the most terrifying, which I forcefully pushed out of my mind as quickly as it appeared - entailed being in _far_ too close in proximity with the curmudgeonly thief.

It's a wonder how I even managed to prepare a staff for the occasion. Alternating mahogany and engraved red oak, topped with a sizeable gem, - which with the right configurations, could be used as a soul gem - typically used to power Illusion spells. I've re-purposed it, largely because it's my favourite design of staff, to act as an amplifier for barriers. Given my lack of reference materials, I'll just have to hope that using it actually assists in _learning_ the spell as much as casting it.

Hearing the noise from the Flagon dying down, I head for the Cistern, staff in hand. The Guildmaster isn't at his desk; he must already be in the training room. The uncomfortable knots in my stomach pull ever tighter as I turn towards my destination.

"Didn't know you used staves." His voice tonight much smoother than I'm used to. The razor-sharp edges have been replaced by an unnervingly pleasant hum, soothing my tension and winding me up, all at the same time.

"I don't; it's for you." I tentatively hand him the staff, which he proceeds to twirl around his wrist, far too close for comfort. Taking a step back, I explain to him - though I have no idea if what I'm saying is accurate -, "If you focus your energy into that, it should produce a barrier at about arms length around you." He eyes the staff, but definitely isn't convinced. "I-it's invisible unless it's actually blocking something, so the only way to test it is if I throw something at you.." Not that I want to do that. What if it doesn't even work? This is turning out exactly like one of the thousand simulations in my mind; I'm not particularly fond of the idea of my head decorating the shelves behind the Guildmaster's desk.

He's glowering at me, I'm not even sure if it's because of my hesitation or the possibility that I've messed this entire thing up. To ensure that it isn't the former, I let loose a fire projectile in his general direction. It won't be particularly harmful even if the staff doesn't work, but I'd rather not entertain the possibility.

My throat plummets to the bottom of my stomach as the missile continues to hurtle towards him. It's not going to work. The barrier should have stopped it by now. Why did I even think it was going to work. As I expected, though clearly not soon enough, the bolt comes into contact with his shoulder briefly before it fizzles out, largely ineffectual.

"Hmph," his contempt is as thick as tar, making my face flare up in a mix of indignation and disappointment. "Can't even cast a single spell properly." He brushes past me, briskly moving towards the exit. I can barely see clearly, heart pounding in my ears, the usual dull throbbing against my temples aggravating into pulsating pain. Unthinkingly, a second projectile leaves my hand. Uncontrolled. Sharp enough to pierce, more than enough force to impale.

The Guildmaster is a blur as he moves out of its trajectory, my attack leaving a sizable dent in the stone wall of the training room. All I see is a chilling sneer before a hand is wrapped around my throat, pulling me off my feet, body crashing with a jolt against the back wall. My feet scrabble vainly for purchase as his grip on my neck tightens, straining against my windpipe. His other hand - still holding my staff - comes to rest just above my head.

"You can do better than _that_." There's no mistaking my shudder as he growls into my ear. His expression is positively feral, yet his eyes are all but ordering me to fight back.

"I know." It only takes a moment as I raise both of my hands, twin bolts of unrestrained lightning hitting him square in the chest. The impact knocks the Breton halfway across the room as I similarly fall to the floor, released from his grasp. Spluttering, I force myself to sit upright, back supported by the same wall I was pinned to mere seconds ago. By the time I've caught my breath, Mercer is already standing at my feet, offering the end of the staff to help me up. I must still be deprived of air, as I'm imagining his lips pulled upward into something _almost_ resembling a smile.

I run a hand over the back of my - still throbbing - neck sheepishly, averting my eyes. "..Maybe we should start again."

* * *

Training with Mercer has managed to become a near nightly ritual, where I add to his - already quite expansive - magical capacity while he shows me how to block, dodge, and use weapons - "_I doubt you can use anything bigger than a dagger._" - effectively. Honestly, I think I'm getting the better end of the deal, the Guildmaster is perfectly capable even without the things I'm showing him: his fighting form is both exhilarating to follow and mesmerising to behold. I've come to revel in the dull aches associated with physical exertion and, though I'm loath to admit it, _gotten used _to being in Mercer's company.

I suppose I owe Brynjolf a drink.

"Incidentally," Mercer begins as I'm packing away the materials from our latest session, "I've heard rumours about the Jarl of Whiterun's son; apparently he's possessed."

My face perks up as I thank him extensively for the information. If I leave now, I should be able to get to Whiterun by mid afternoon. I turn to my Guildmaster with a grin; "Don't wait up. I'll be working late."

* * *

A/N: _And then she reaches through the screen and implores everybody to go and play _(or watch the cutscenes, I suppose)_ the Thief series of games. With earphones. Because hotholyhell that voice._

I should also use this opportunity to thank everybody who has managed to stick with me so far. I never really intended to run away with this quite as badly as I have and your continued readership means a lot to me. So big hugs, everybody.


	13. Chapter 14

A/N: A little while after putting this up, it occurred to me that this chapter could be considered slightly... _darker_ than the previous ones. Have fun!

* * *

_Chapter 14_

Following an uneventful carriage ride to Whiterun, I make a few short visits to clients before heading to The Bannered Mare to confirm Mercer's information. A particularly sallow looking Breton who I've never seen in the area calls out to me to share a drink. I politely decline, for the moment, given that it's mid afternoon and I still have things to do. I express that I'd love to take him up on his offer later in the evening, once I've dealt with my affairs for the day.

After speaking with the Jarl, it becomes clear just how concerned he is, going as far as to ask for help of someone who is, for the most part, a stranger to his court. Normally, the only reason I'd have to go to Dragonsreach is if I had some business with Farengar. As the result of getting in the Jarl of Whiterun's good graces can only be a positive one, I spare no time in seeking out his son, Nelkir.

"So, the disgusting pig sent you to bother me. One day, I'll tear his _face apart_ so he can leave me alone." Well, it's clear why the Jarl thinks his son is a touch on the violent side. Initially it seems as if the child's grievances could be primarily attributed to his family life, but he eventually gets to something that piques my interest: "The Whispering Lady. I bet she'll talk to you, too."

To the basement, then.

I'm not very familiar with most of the layout of Dragonsreach, and it takes me an embarrassing amount of time to even locate the basement, let alone any suspicious doorways. Five, maybe six rounds of pacing through the same area before I notice an unfamiliar set of doors. Sacks of grain, barrels and other obstructions block part of its entrance, but there is just enough room for me to slip in. The corridor is incredibly cramped. Crates and other stackable items climb high along the walls; anyone particularly larger than I am would have considerable trouble moving around. At the end of the corridor is another set of doors. The painter did a terrible job with this one, red paint splashed haphazardly over it.

I rub my fingers over a temple; my head is _pounding_. It just seems to get worse the further I move down the hall.

"_At last_." I freeze. The voice isn't coming from the door.

"_I've been waiting for someone more fit to carry out my will_." My ears are ringing, yet it speaks not in words, but in _ideas_, each abstraction drawn taut, etched into my mind. Talent. Curiosity. Agency. Desires. Conveniences. Whims. Whispers. Love. Hatred. Loyalty. Betrayal. Ambition. Power. _Mephala_.

I need to get that door open.

Her whispers - though Princes are genderless, I'm compelled to refer to her as "she" - are far less pronounced as I leave the passage, though her orders are a vice, clawing into my brain. While she is far less persuasive with distance, the throbbing against my temples continue to linger. Nelkir tells me that there are two keys to the door: one with his father, and the other with Farengar. "Nobody would notice if Farengar were to go missing, I promise you."

This is not the venue for making rational decisions. With that in mind, I extract myself from the castle. My headache subsides, for the most part, and I begin weighing my options.

There are two constraints I wish to satisfy: getting the door open, and _not_ killing Farengar. He is far too useful and an incredibly valuable connection in Whiterun to erase, even if I could do it with little consequence. If he knows that the room behind that door houses part of a Daedric Prince, he certainly won't be willing to part with the key. Further, I'm not a pickpocket, so that only leaves one real option.

Stepping back inside Dragonsreach, the unpleasant pulsating is back, but my mind is clear on what I have to do. Farengar is bent over his enchanting table. A familiar sight, and perfect for my purposes. My footsteps are muffled and the Nord is far too engrossed in his activities to notice me. I draw my dagger, - thank you Mercer - reversing its grip and bringing the hilt down with relative force against the back of his head. His body topples over with a release of breath, leaving him draped over the table. It almost looks like he's simply fallen asleep. I rifle through his unconscious person, pocketing the key as well as a couple soul gems he happened to be carrying.

My first foray in stealthy endeavours successful, I pad back to my destination in uncharacteristically high spirits.

The newly opened door reveals a barren room, housing a lone table. On it is a small leather-bound book, and a sword, resembling an Akaviri Dai-Katana, - mother had one in her possession, as well as several books on Akaviri weaponry in our old house - carved out of ebony. As my eyes follow the blade, my hand unconsciously reaches out, taking the hilt.

The Eternal Champion, Hero of Daggerfall, Savior of Bruma: warriors of legend whose myths of valour are invalidated by this very blade. Visions of their deception, malice and slaughter assault my senses; the intimacy of seduction, the agony of betrayal, the acrid tang of fresh blood, _the ecstasy of power_. I see every victim, every husband, every daughter, every companion, whose misplaced beliefs led to their downfall, each death further adding to the power afforded by wielder. Their suffering becomes my exaltation, their cries euphonious, welcomed by my ears. Before me my own web; every individual, every connection, every possibility, all at the mercy of my whims. The very knowledge brings with it a corrupt, sadistic pleasure, coursing through entire my frame.

"_You need not resist._"

Lucidity returns. I'm on my knees, breathless and trembling, still holding the Ebony Blade. There is a shallow gash running across my left palm, small clots of blood collecting along the cut; it must have happened at some point when I fell. I don't want the wound to scar, - it will, should I cast spells with the hand - so it's best to head to the Temple of Kynareth for some healing first. Strapping the Ebony Blade to my back, I set off. I need to rest before I can even begin to process everything that's happened.


	14. Chapter 15

_Chapter_ 15

As I'm arranging for a room at The Bannered Mare, I'm once again flanked down by the Breton I spoke to earlier in the day. He seems quite insistent that I drink with him and participate in a friendly contest. While he's much cheerier than my usual - and preferred - company, the opportunity for some relaxation is welcomed, given today's mental exertions. A few drinks can't possibly do much harm, anyway.

"Down the hatch."

* * *

Well. So much for that idea.

I'm completely parched, my head feels like it's been split in two, and I smell as if I've been nesting with Hagravens. Sifting through stray memories is an arduous task and only serves to aggravate me further, unable to differentiate between drunken activities, visions from the Ebony Blade, and everything else I may or may not have done that day. I don't even know how long it's been since, where I am now, or how I managed acquire and put on completely a different, clean set of robes. Everything is annoying me. Even the _light_ is irritating.

"It's time to wake up, you drunken blasphemer!" Fantastic. This is the _last_ thing I need right now. It turns out that I'm in the Temple of Dibella, in _Markarth_, of all places, and I've fondled the statuaries. If bards weren't singing effigies about my grace and temperance before, they certainly won't be starting now.

I'm moments away from brushing straight past the woman before me - I'm in no mood to deal with preachers right now - before I'm struck by a horrifying revelation. _The Black Star is gone_. Everything else is here, my dagger, the Ebony Blade, even those soul gems I stole from Farengar, but not the single item that the majority of my time lately has been invested into unravelling. There are far too many possibilities as to what I did with it, most of which I can't even _remember_ at the moment. I feel a little faint.

I'm all but forced to ask the priestess for assistance, as I proceed to tidy up the temple which I did a particularly impressive job at desecrating several hours prior. Fortunately, my gut-wrenching distress is short lived, - though it is mildly concerning that I find being at the mercy of my incredibly moody Guildmaster on a regular basis to be _less _stressful than losing my possessions - as a note, clearly addressed to me, falls out of the inside of my new robes.

**_ I'll be keeping your Star safe._**

**_ Find me at Misty Grove to claim your reward._**

**_ - Uncle Sam_**

I have mixed feelings about finding out how exactly the note managed to get inside my clothing, or where these robes even came from, but at least I know where the Star is. Sort of. To my knowledge, nothing known as "Misty Grove" exists in Skyrim, so I implore the Priestess of Dibella to help me with my predicament. All she can really tell me is that I mentioned something about Rorikstead, but it's as good a lead as any.

There's no real sense in dwelling on my poor decisions, and since I am in the area, I may as well use my time here effectively. With that in mind, I head to Understone Keep to discuss business with Calcelmo and Aicantar. As I arrive, I spot a particularly heated argument between Brother Verulus - the local priest of Arkay, who I've coerced into assisting with injuries, on occasion - and a Nord who I've seen around the Keep before. Once they part ways, I catch up to Verulus.

He explains, though it does take some convincing, that the Hall of the Dead is closed because something has been _eating_ the bodies. Verulus is understandably quite distressed; most civilisations take to dealing with their dead very seriously, though I never really found myself echoing such superstitions. My main concern is why anybody would want to consume human flesh _raw_, and without salt; I don't expect it would taste any good on its own. Since he isn't of the mind to sort out the situation, I offer to look into it for him.

As I step into the Hall of the Dead, I encounter an incredibly familiar, though not quite as invasive, sensation.

"_You see the dead and your mouth grows wet. Your stomach growls."_

I'm beginning to understand how the Daedra seduce their thralls, unearthing repressed, concealed desires to establish a foothold within the victim's psyche. At the moment, that's the only explanation I have for why I'm finding the suggestions of cannibalism amusing at best, while my dealings with Mephala revealed far more about my nature than I'm willing to entertain at the moment.

Still, playing along could reward me handsomely, and I act appropriately when dealing with the Breton woman, - Eola, servant of Namira - who appears before me. I have agreed to meet her at Reachcliff Cave to assist with her draugr problem.

* * *

A/N: Formatting is the cruelest Mistress.


	15. Chapter 16

A/N: Guys, I take a left turn and go hurtling into Insanity Valley in this chapter, so please be aware of warnings for violence, viscera, torture, and likely other unpleasant elements I've left out. With that in mind, this chapter was immensely enjoyable to write.

* * *

_Chapter 16_

I'm making my way out of Markarth, where I notice a man asking one of the neighbourhood scalds about a particular abandoned residence. Judging by his robes, he's a Vigilant of Stendarr. I try to keep out of their way, given my latent fascination with Daedra, but his presence rewards me with a valuable opportunity. For a group of people dedicated to rooting out the "evils" of our land, they - or perhaps it's just this man in particular - are surprisingly trusting of strangers offering assistance. He - his name is Vigilant Tyranus - suspects the presence of Daedra within the house we are currently standing in front of. Our purposes aligned, I accompany him inside.

The insistent, now quite familiar headache is back. There's something here, but I can't be sure what just yet. Tyranus doesn't appear to be phased; perhaps the sphere of temptation for this particular Prince isn't one that resonates with him. It'll be impossible to know until we find out just whose company we're in. The Imperial breaks into a sprint, having heard a loud noise deeper within the house. If the pulsating within my own head wasn't worsening, I'd have a mind to call him overly excitable. His progress is impeded, however, by a locked door, which he gestures to me to unlock. Apparently they don't teach observational skills in Vigilant initiation, lest he could have deduced that unlocking doors isn't part of my skill set. Regardless, I make sure that the door really is locked, my hand reaching out to touch the door handle.

_**"Weak. He's weak. You're strong. Crush him."**_

Tyranus is panicked. He's running back to the entrance. He won't get far. My legs pursue him in long strides. The Ebony Blade in my hands feels comfortable, familiar, as if its shape has conformed to its wielder. He's fumbling with the door. It won't open for him. His back is facing me._ Perfect_.

_**"Kill him. Crush his bones. Tear at his flesh."**_

"Understood."

The Blade comes down in a wide arc across the back of his calves, legs giving out from under him. His hands, once scrabbling for purchase, now lay severed on the ground. My left hand winds into his hair, keeping his head level with mine. His sobs fuel my revelry as the Blade pierces his abdomen, twisting then slashing outwards, lacerating from navel to waist. I can hear the blood gurgling in his throat as he struggles to breathe, the clinging warmth soaking, spreading over his robes. He is only out of his misery when I release him, driving a conjured spike through his skull. What remains of his body topples to the ground, any blood which hasn't soaked into my clothes pooling around his corpse. Mephala's praises course through my being; I am _euphoric_.

As the high recedes, the presence compels - no - _commands_ me to continue deeper, through tunnels which proceed deep within the bowels of the earth. Atop a spiked altar rests a rusted mace, sharpened spines covering its head and hilt. _I've read about this_. My hand reaches out, to pull the weapon from its resting place.

_**"Fool! Did you think Molag Bal, the Lord of Domination, would so easily reward you?"**_

I'm brought to my knees, pain lancing through my arm as it twists, contorts, far beyond the constraints of flesh, muscle and bone. Serrated bars cage my form, rending cloth and leaving small slashes along my skin. Invisible tendrils wrap around my neck, an unspoken warning for my quiescence, just firm enough to hamper my increasingly hollow breaths. Shallow cuts, open long enough to sting, smart, only to close, the entire process beginning anew with ever increasing severity. I clench my teeth, attempting to regulate my breathing and retain my composure. _Concentrate._

_**"Prove your worth, pawn of Mephala, and I may grant you what you seek."**_

Edged spikes erupt from the ground, impaling my hands. I can see the severed flesh knitting itself back together, yet the torturous throbbing never recedes. Endless daggers puncture my limbs, always in a different location to the last. Bones shatter, struck down by spectral hammers, only to reassemble. Skin flays. Tendons rend. My sense of time vitiates with my resistance, gasps lined with anguish, throes tightening the binds around my neck. Soon, every voice that was once imploring, _endure_, is beckoning, _embrace_, the agony warping into searing heat. These afflictions are no longer penalties, but _rewards_. My body sings with every blow, praying for ceaseless satisfaction. I tremble not from fear or pain, but from thrill, surrender, _submission_.

* * *

I cannot say exactly when it all ended, nor when I returned to any semblance of clear thought. The only thing of importance, however, is that the Mace of Molag Bal, at its full power, is now in my possession. Pain still flows through me, though there are no injuries. The only remnant is a single line of glyphs, carved into my upper arm. Even my rudimentary knowledge of Daedric text is enough to decipher its lettering:

**_MOLAG BAL_**

* * *

A/N: Incidentally, if you're into dubstep, Mirrors by Varien was playing as I wrote most of this chapter.

Also, formatting is still the cruelest Mistress.


	16. Chapter 17

A/N: Another relatively nutty chapter, though a touch more light hearted. Still a tiny bit of maimimg, though.

* * *

_Chapter 17_

Sleep was a necessity following the activities of the past few days. Despite premonitions of my eventual fate in Coldharbour - though I'm not sure if I believe them just yet - tainting my rest, my body had recovered enough to return to reasonable functionality. The abandoned house is oddly well stocked, I find out as I replace my robes, - an interesting charcoal-coloured corseted number over a wine blouse - I could use it as an alternate home, should I be in the area. The new robes aren't nearly as bulky as what I'm used to wearing, which is a welcome change given how active I am lately. Tyranus' body has also inconspicuously disappeared; at least there are some perks to pleasing a Daedric Lord.

Emerging once again onto the streets of Markarth, I run into none other than the Dragonborn, Cain, waving me down for a conversation.

"The Guildmaster's been_ furious_ that you've been gone for so long." I chuckle to myself. _Unlikely_. As lively and pleasant as Cain is, I wouldn't trust any of what he has to say about Mercer as accurate.

"Well then, what are _you_ doing in Markarth?" I'm not of the mind to discuss any of what I've been up to, so it's best to divert the topic to recent Guild events. The Dragonborn explains that he's actually headed to Solitude to shake down an old, traitorous ally, and was simply making a stop in Markarth for some burglary and fishing jobs.

"Markarth is our only untapped hold, you know. I hope Master Frey will appreciate everything I've done for the Guild." The Imperial is beaming, as he always is when the subject of Mercer Frey comes up. His enthusiasm is incredibly endearing, both in his work and his foolhardy pursuit for the object of his affections. It's too bad Mercer doesn't seem to appreciate it. "I'll have a look into the Blue Palace for you while I'm there; apparently part of it is haunted," he winks.

"Please don't get yourself killed; Mercer wouldn't be happy if we lost the best thief in the Guild." Cain grins from ear to ear at the compliment, and eventually takes his leave in high spirits. That should be more than enough motivation for him to complete his task - and hopefully bring back something for me - successfully.

I decide to buy a horse - the amount of things I'm carrying around now is just ridiculous - and ride to Reachcliff Cave. Meeting up with Eola, we head in and clear out the draugr. There are no real issues, and I probably could have done it myself without any assistance. Once we clear out the final room, - an open space featuring a long dinner table, in front of what appears to be an altar - Eola has one more task.

"Bring Verulus here. The Lady of Decay will do the rest."

I don't even need to ask what they intend to do with him. The ride back to Markarth allows me to think my actions over.

Do I really want to lead Verulus to his death? I don't know him particularly well, and I can receive healing from the Temple of Dibella if I'm in the area. More importantly, bringing Verulus for these cultists' feast could lead to a reward from Namira, which is one more step of progress. I don't think Verulus has done anything to warrant death, but neither did Vigilant Tyranus, and I _relished_ cutting him down. One could argue that I wasn't myself, but that kind of reasoning can only continue for so long before such excuses are void. I should just accept that I have a penchant for cold-blooded murder and move on.

Starting from Brother Verulus, naturally.

It's quite amusing how things worked out, seeing as he was the one that had me deal with the intruder in the Hall of the Dead in the first place. Since he owes me a favour, convincing the priest into following me back to Reachcliff Cave is a simple task.

By the time we arrive back at the dining hall, I spot quite a few familiar faces sitting at the table. The meat vendor, general store owner, one of the fellows from the stables, where I had purchased a horse just a couple hours prior; and people wonder why so many things go wrong in Markarth. It's as if all the Daedra made a mutual decision to terrorise The Reach.

I'm close to criticising Verulus' poor deductive abilities when I realise that Eola has used some manner of calm spell to sedate Arkay's servant and have him lay down on the altar. Eola offers that I carve up their meal. Looking around, I see patrons salivating, others licking their lips, and all of them looking at me expectantly. The entire situation is just so absurd, I have to stop myself from breaking down in laughter right then and there. I'm honestly not sure if that counts as proof of my sanity or confirmation of just how far gone I really am.

Regardless, I'm not about to let my captive audience down. Drawing the Ebony Blade, I begin - quite meticulously - shredding Brother Verulus into individual portions. The usual bliss that accompanies the use of the Blade is slightly muted, - perhaps I'm getting used to it, or its effects have changed since the incident with Molag Bal - for which I'm quite thankful for. I wouldn't want to cause a spectacle in front of all of these already quite eager bystanders.

The dinner guests cheer, and Eola invites me to take the first bite. I _really_ don't want to do that. He's going to taste awful.

"Will anyone take issue if I _cook_ my portion?" Nobody responds, which is permission enough for me. I retrieve a severed ear, throwing together a few fire spells to char the skin. Luckily, there is some salt on the table, which I apply liberally in an attempt to drown out any taste of _dead preacher_. By the time I've prepared everything, everyone else has already begun to tuck into their meals. Yet, there's still no sign of Namira. I suppose there is only one remaining option.

The congregation is far too absorbed in their feast to notice my grimace as I take a bite. Crunchy, but completely unpleasant. While that could be attributed to choosing the wrong part of the body, this is one subject I'd sooner remain ignorant about. Fortuitously, moments after I take a bite, a ring forms around one of my fingers. The Ring of Namira. Given what I've read, I personally won't be getting any use out of it, but I have an entire table of potential consumers gorging themselves as we speak.

Looks like things are looking up.


	17. Chapter 18

_Chapter 18_

There is one last thing left to do before I can head back home. I have more than a passing thought to send some correspondence to the Guild, but I eventually decide against it. I'll just enchant something nice for Mercer if it turns out that he really was annoyed about my extended absence. Retrieving the Star is ultimately the most important task at the moment, regardless of how one particularly prickly thief might feel about it. With that in mind, I set off for Rorikstead.

The place most likely to have useful information is Frostfruit Inn. With luck, Sam and I had some drinks there before we moved on to Marka-

A cabbage hits me in the back of the head as I'm dismounting off my horse. What in the-

This time, a flying potato misses me by mere inches. At about the three-o'clock direction stands an incredibly angry looking farmer, all but ready to throw a chicken egg at my general direction. My hands automatically move forward, both for possible casting and to make it clear that I don't actually mean the fellow any harm. I don't even understand why anybody would just start throwing perfectly reasonable produce at a passerby.

"You've got a lot of nerve, showing yourself in this town again!" I'm trying to make it clear I have no idea what he's talking about, but he's far too wound up to listen to me. "After what you did to Gleda.., I should call the guards to have you hauled away!" Gleda? Wife? Daughter? I certainly hope I didn't murder her, and was stupid enough to leave bystanders in my inebriated state. I doubt I can explain away something like that to the guards.

"My Gleda...!" Fantastic, his voice is cracking. He's practically on the verge of tears. I _really_ don't want to spend time in jail. "Kidnapped by a drunk oaf and sold to a giant..!" I sold his girlfriend to a _what_ now? Where did I even put the money from the proceeds? I put on my most sympathetic face and explain to him that I was not in a state to know what I was doing. I even offer to rescue his girlfriend from the giant I apparently did business with.

Then I find out that Gleda is a goat. A _goat. _This grown man is about to break down into a sobbing mess over a _goat_. Still, that should make this rescue mission marginally simpler. The giant's normal haunt is apparently not too far from Rorikstead, so I decide to make my way on foot. The creature is naturally incredibly easy to spot, and I decide that it is simplest to take it down at a distance, before it can close in on my position. All that leaves is to have Gleda follow me back to Rorikstead.

Only she doesn't move. I try tempting her with some grass, some food, even the soul gems in my pocket in a fit of desperation, nothing. Nudging her forward does nothing, nor does pretending to be a predator, she just keeps looking at me blankly, chewing on cud that I'm sure has turned to mush by now. Maybe if I tried picking her up.

It's a decision I immediately regret when she starts bleating like her life depended on it, thrashing madly to get out of my arms and kicking me in the face in the process. I was wrong. Rescuing a human would have been _much_ easier than this. The goat makes a mad dash back to Rorikstead as I chase after it. If it didn't want to be lifted up it should have just been more cooperative. I'm unbelievably close to invoking the name of a Divine I don't believe in.

One good thing did come out of getting kicked in the face and out-muscled by a goat, however, which is that the lumpish farmer - how can anyone get so attached to a _goat_ - informs me that I had left a note during my night of drunken debauchery, which spoke of repaying Ysolda in Whiterun. I've actually done business with her in the past, which is why I'm not in the least looking forward to finding out how low my credibility has stooped as a result of my doltishness.

To Whiterun, I suppose.


	18. Chapter 19

A/N: I'm sorry about the slower pace of the updates; I've somehow managed to grow myself a life. I'm just as surprised.

* * *

_Chapter_ 19

Once I track down Ysolda, I'm met with exactly the same air of hostility and discontent. Fantastic. If I didn't require the information, I doubt I'd even want more details about my evening of stupidity. I should, however, make an effort to salvage our working relationship.

"So, you're finally back. Look, I've been patient, but you still owe me." _Phew_. Material goods, wealth, I have no problems in returning. "It's not about the money, really. I wouldn't have given you the wedding ring if you weren't so obviously in love." _Wedding ring? Love?_ A completely unrelated train of thought comes to mind, which I have to forcibly remove. "But if there isn't going to be a wedding," - _oh thank Mara_ - "the least you can do is give the ring back." Ysolda subsequently scolds me for not remembering where I left my "fiancée", and I set off for Witchmist Grove. Never realised Ysolda was actually a hopeless romantic.

It turns out that Witchmist Grove is actually a small, secluded shack, its perimeter lined with sharpened wooden stakes to deter passersby. Initially, I assumed it to be abandoned, but then I spot a Hagraven heading straight towards me. Strange, since they'd typically prefer to attack with magic from a distance.

"Darling! I've been waiting for you to return, to consummate our love!" What. _What_.

_Whaat._

My imagination goes wild with horrifying visions of feathered, scratchy courtship. Thankfully, judging by the woman's eagerness to see me, the climax of our romance has yet to occur. Stealing and selling goats, I can understand, but seducing a Hagraven? The wooing of individuals isn't even something I've particularly cared to engage myself in, nor do I find ladies crossed with avians particularly fetching.

Yet, here we are.

She's coming closer, arms outstretched. Her skeever breath already hangs in the air. My hands come to rest in front of my body, palms forward as a gesture that she _stop_. That's when she spots the Ring of Namira on my left hand.

"You! You got that from that hussy Esmerelda, with the dark feathers, didn't you!?" I don't even have a chance to explain before she pounces, forcing herself on top of me as I'm pushed to the ground. With the errant swipes of her claws, combined the incredibly unpleasant, sloppy kisses she's planting on my face, I'm honestly not sure if she intends to kill me or force some manner of conclusion to our - I still can't believe it - tryst from earlier. Neither option is favourable, nor ones I can allow to continue.

I spark a bolt of lightning that hits her in the abdomen, subsequently sending her flying. Out of a bout of pure luck. her chest is impaled by one of the spikes surrounding the shack. Obviously she isn't in a position to stop me from prying the wedding ring off her clammy fingers.

It's as if Sam knew that I wouldn't agree to all this nonsense if he hadn't taken my Star captive. I'd say that these annoyances are simply not worth the effort, but that would be an outright lie.

Once I returned the ring to Ysolda, it turns out that I had mentioned that the wedding was going to be in Morvunskar, of all places. I was _just_ in that area. All this travel back and forth is not doing good things for my mood, and if I spend much more time without sending word to the Guild, Mercer will be more than just annoyed.

I make short work of the mages squatting in the fortress, none of them seem particularly keen on directing me as to the whereabouts of - _my_ _friend_ is stretching it quite thin at the moment - Sam. I sit myself down the throne, what I assume was the leader of this group of spellcasters laying in an ungainly pile at my feet. Surely there must be something here-

The stone walls and dimly lit landscape shifts before my eyes and I find myself in front of _another_ dinner table. I certainly hope it isn't Namira, beckoning me for seconds.

There are other attendees, but none of them seem particularly phased by the sudden additional diner. Foliage, soil under boots, I can even hear the flow of a river in the distance, yet the conspicuous lack of clouds or sky overhead makes it feel closer to the inside of an incredibly vast cave. This must be Misty Grove.

"You're here! I was beginning to think you might not make it." That perpetually intoxicated drawl comes from none other than Sam, who stands at the head of the table. I leave my seat immediately and appeal - quite forcefully - for my Star.

"Oh yeah, your Star. That's all you talked about, even when you were hammered. That and some Merc - Mercy? - guy. Had to hold the Star hostage before you would do anything fun." The Breton before me is shrouded in an amethyst hue, and his figure morphs into one much taller, dark robes replaced with sharpened armour, pallid skin inverted to slate, once rounded ears now arched and pointed. "After which you didn't disappoint." I automatically take a step back. Clearly Sam is not what I initially thought him to be.

"Sanguine, Daedric Lord of Debauchery. I'm surprised you haven't met more of my kind given the _graand _quest you're on." I must have mentioned that to him, as well. That's the last time I take drinks from strangers. "Though should you ever need any relief from your _stressful_ mission, you know who to call." I blink. He's really suggesting what I think he is. Admittedly, I do give it more than just a passing thought.

"Maybe if we had done this a few months ago."

"Well, should you require the services of my kind," a staff materialises in my hands, birch stemmed handle, topped with an attractive - if a little suggestive - rose in bloom, "you know how to call your old Uncle Sanguine." The Star appears back within my person and I thank Sanguine appreciatively. My time in Misty Grove clearly up, I find myself transported to none other than The Bee and Barb.

Well, that was convenient.


	19. Chapter 20

_Chapter_ 20

The Guildmaster isn't at his desk when I climb down to the Cistern. In fact, nobody is here. I can understand the rest of the Guild drinking, but Mercer, too? I assume he's out on an errand until I can hear his distinctive voice coming from the entrance of the Ragged Flagon. Judging by the volume and tone, he is _not_ pleased.

The Flagon certainly isn't the way I left it. There are an abundance of sweetrolls scattered around the area, some on tables, others on the floor. I could be imagining it, but everybody seems to be covered in a thin layer of flour. The bulk of the Guild are here, but the air is thick with tension. Stray shards of ice sprinkle Mercer's hair, his back is to me and he appears to be holding something down on the table in front of him. A rabbit, of all things, hops past, brushing against my ankle. Cain is the first to notice my presence, crossing the distance with overflowing enthusiasm to greet me. He's either completely oblivious to the air of the room, or he doesn't care to add to it. In his hands is an extraordinarily large sweetroll.

"You won't _believe_ who I met in Solitude!" His eyes are glittering with excitement and his characteristic grin is even wider than usual. "Sheogorath, Prince of Madness!" Pushing the giant sweetroll into my hands - it measures from my neck to my waist, so large that I have to wrap my arms around it to hold comfortably - as he ushers me in the bar itself, Cain regales me of his adventure. I am disappointed that I lost the opportunity to meet Sheogorath, though judging by the Dragonborn's story, I certainly lack the _patience_ required to detangle an unstable emperor's mind. I'm in the middle of asking whether he retrieved anything for me when the sweetroll is abruptly yanked from my arms.

"You can continue your reunion later. _He_ needs to report back on Solitude." Mercer shoves a staff - grey, topped with three incredibly disquieting open mouthed faces - into my still outstretched hands. The magic that emanates from it is erratic at best, maniacal at worst. Even I have doubts as to whether or not I would be able to extract any stability from it. "_Don't_ give anyone access to this, understand?" It's incredibly difficult to evaluate whether the Guildmaster is simply annoyed about the discord in the Flagon, or if he really is displeased about my extended absence. The grumpy Breton stomps - not that his footsteps are audible, one can simply _feel_ the discontent in his gait - towards the Cistern, Cain following closely behind him. I should use this short window to enchant something useful for Mercer, just in case.

It takes quite a bit of time to reorganise my workshop; only after packing away several of my materials on Nocturnal and the Skeleton Key, - I must have left them sitting here in my zest to get to Whiterun - could I organise my new acquisitions and make plans as to which artifact to deal with first. The Ring of Namira appears to be the safest option, given that I'm not particularly receptive to its effects. I just finish enchanting a ring for the Guildmaster when Brynjolf comes into my quarters.

"Mercer wants to see you, lass. He's not happy, so you'd best not keep him waiting." At least I have something to distract him with.

The thief is pouring over papers, correspondence, maps, the perpetual lines of disdain and acrimony across his forehead pulled ever deeper in concentration. More than ire, he seems _uneasy_. It isn't a sentiment I would ordinarily associate with him. I stand at his desk for a few moments before he acknowledges my presence.

"Snow Veil Sanctum. You're coming with me." I listen with particular interest as Mercer recounts part of the Guild's past. One of deceit, betrayal and its resurgence in the organisation's present misfortunes. A past which could explain the Guildmaster's current demeanour and misgivings.

"While I understand the urgency, isn't this a task better suited to thieves?"

"Karliah is a skilled marksman and a _master_ at her trade; your skills are necessary." I'm honestly quite flattered, but now isn't the time to dwell on such things.

"Prepare what you need. We leave as soon as you're ready."

The two of us are more than enough to take this woman down. Should be fun.

* * *

A/N: _Uh oh._

I intend to write a short thingy involving Cain's adventures with the Wabbajack, eventually.

Also, if you're still with me, thank you! I have only love and hugs and other positive things to give in appreciation.


	20. Chapter 21

_Chapter 21_

"That looks far too big for you." Mercer is referring to the Ebony Blade in my right hand as we reach the entrance of Snow Veil Sanctum.

"I thought so too, but it feels.. familiar. As if I was meant to use it." I hear him scoff under his breath as he unlocks the door. Something stops me from recounting the circumstances surrounding my procurement of the Blade; maybe I'll tell Mercer about it - and the whole event with Molag Bal - after this job is over. Tales of my adventures - or any discussion at all, at that - are probably not appropriate given our location.

An inordinate part of our navigation through the tombs involved my activating plate traps on the floor and subsequently being yanked out of the way by an ever increasingly irritated Mercer. _"You have eyes; use them."_ My inability to see in every direction at the same time is balanced, however, by keeping most of the draugr - never mind that I was the one who woke them in the first place - and projectile traps at bay. The Guildmaster, having been here before, spent most of the time directing while I took the lead to protect against any unpleasants that came up. Perhaps it's just my admiration for his abilities, but he could have gone through this entire area by himself.

"This is the last room. Make sure you're ready." He unlocks the Nordic puzzle door without difficulty, - I'm quite impressed - gesturing that I take the lead. My left hand engages the barrier as I go to step over the threshold-

Calloused fingers dig into my wrist, twisting behind my back as I lose concentration, pain erupting along my arm. _Wha-? _At that same moment, an arrow flies out of the darkness, piercing my chest. My weapon clatters to the ground as I follow after it, a binding tension spreading through every nerve, every muscle; I can't move, can't blink. It's a wonder how I can even breathe. I have no choice but to watch as Mercer stalks past me, sword ready to strike the hooded figure in the clearing.

Their conversation doesn't make any sense. None of this makes any sense. My eyes are stinging, being forced to stay open as seconds, minutes count on. Why am I paralysed on the ground? Karliah's innocence means nothing to me; all I want is this hindrance to the Guild removed and return to normalcy. Surely Mercer must know that.

Mollified with Karliah's retreat, Mercer strides towards me. His face is pulled into a snarl, slitted eyes raking over my rigid body. The chill that accompanies his presence, one I haven't felt in months, is back. "For someone so _brilliant_," he comes to a halt before me, stooping low to make eye contact. His hand reaches into one of the many pockets lining his armour. "You're awfully naive about the company you keep." What he holds before my eyes is something I've seen many times, in books, images, even my dreams. _The Skeleton Key_. My Ebony Blade is in his hands, his gaze inspecting the sharpened edge while straightening upright. "Retrieve it, if you can." Without a moment's hesitation, he drives the Blade into my side.

_No-_

* * *

Well, I'm alive. Incredibly displeased, but alive.

When I regained consciousness, I was met by not one, but two figures: Karliah, having pulled my body out of the Sanctum, and - of all people - the Dragonborn. He claimed that he was simply in the area and noticed my predicament, but I suspect that he was waiting close to the exit for our - mine and Mercer's, that is - return. Still, Cain's presence keeps me from dwelling on _why_ I managed to get myself into this situation, and redirects my focus to _how_ I can get myself out.

Karliah's arrow may have saved my life, but my purposes aren't in the least aligned with her own. However, until I can clear up this _gross_ misunderstanding with the man himself, - I don't even know where I could find him - I'm forced to go along with her methods. My injuries are still quite inflamed; Karliah only has enough proficiency in Restoration to neutralise the poison and stop the sword wound from bleeding. They're likely to scar before I can get them properly tended to. I'll have to see to arranging more robes, as well.

She sends us to Winterhold - though I'm less than enthusiastic about taking orders from her - to speak to one of Gallus' closest friends, Enthir, who will assist in decoding her former lover's journal. I haven't spoken to Enthir in person for several months, but I'm less than keen on revealing my true alignment to someone who was apparently so close Gallus before he was murdered. I doubt he would be quite as forthcoming if he knew that I _don't_ want Mercer Frey dead, despite our working relationship.

My stay in Winterhold is extended when Enthir expresses that he lacks the resources to translate the journal, and that the only Falmer expert he knows of is Calcelmo, all the way in Markarth. If there is a single thing to be learnt from my dealings with Calcelmo is that he is protective to a fault of his research. There is _no way_ that I would be able to coerce him into sharing his findings. The only remaining method is to simply steal the findings, which fortunately for us, is quite possible given the proficient thief in our company. I compensate Cain to bring me back some more robes from the abandoned house. Molag Bal's presence had disappeared since I was last there, so he should be reasonably safe.

Separated from the bulk of my current research, resources, responsibilities, and distractions, the week spent in anxious anticipation for the Dragonborn's return is not a pleasant one. My only reprieve is also my only burden: Mercer's final command replaying unceasingly in my mind.

_I need to find him. _

* * *

A/N: There are three songs for this particular chapter, depending on your level of sentimentality. Shot In The Dark by Within Temptation (for gross sobbing), Complacent, and Maps Of Reality by Assemblage 23 (closer to our stoic narrator's reaction).


	21. Chapter 22

A/N: Today's chapter is slightly shorter, because the one following it will be (I think) on the longer side. For the purposes of flow, I've cut this one short.

* * *

_Chapter 22_

Nothing is revealed from Enthir's decryption that I didn't already care to know. Mercer Frey desecrated the Twilight Sepulcher, stole the Skeleton Key, and has been filching from the Guild even prior to that. The revelations mean nothing to me, though I'm forced to exercise my acting skills in pretending otherwise. Karliah's plan from here is simple: approach the Guild with Gallus' journal, serving as proof of Mercer's betrayal. After which, she is quite adamant that the Guild decide his fate, though I'm sure that's just another way of expressing that she wants him dead. Given her self-righteous attitude, - I understand that she has suffered much as a result of the Guildmaster's actions, but I just can't find myself sympathising with her misfortunes - I assume that she'll want to return the Skeleton Key back to the Sepulcher.

I'm not losing either of them.

Returning to the Thieves Guild was a simple enough task, given we have Cain to vouch for us. Honestly, I don't even understand how they could have possibly thought me to be a traitor; there is absolutely _nothing_ to be gained from my turning on the Guild. The resources, the income, the company - though I suppose the my favourite of which no longer remains - aren't things I have any reason to throw away. Perhaps the group is easier fooled than even Mercer gives them credit for.

Delvin, Vex and Brynjolf use their keys to unlock the vault, and I'm filled with an enormous sense of esteem for the Guildmaster. It's an affirming display of skill and manipulation, being able to sweep the Guild of the entirety of its assets and future plans. Truly, I expected nothing less.

Brynjolf sets the Dragonborn with the task of breaking into Mercer's estate, Riftweald Manor, in order to retrieve any clues relating to his location. The sombre change in his tone almost suggests a feeling of _disappointment_, as if his alliances still lay with the - now former, I suppose - Guildmaster, and he's only sending Cain on the trail because he feels it's necessary. Knowing Cain, he is also less than thrilled about having to bring Mercer to justice. Good. I can use this.

As the Guild finally settles, - Cain will be looting Mercer's house late tonight - I make my way back to my workshop. I need to concentrate on what I intend to do next. Everything seems in order, Volendrung, the Mace, the two staves and the ring are all here. I assume that the Ebony Blade is intact and with Mercer; I'll get it back eventually. All that's left is to go through my research notes and-

_Empty_.

The chest in which I normally keep all of my records, the very same place I stored the Black Star before leaving for Snow Veil Sanctum, completely empty. I can't believe this is happening. _Why_ is this happening? Inside the only remaining book in my workshop - Thief, by Reven, of all things - is a single slip of paper:

**_One step ahead._**

**_- Mercer_**


	22. Chapter 23

A/N: I'm so sorry guys, there's _smut_ in this chapter. And not just your regular kind of smut; please be aware of warnings for violence, dubcon, blood, knives, bondage and probably a few other things. Though really, it's not as bad as I'm making it sound, honest.

* * *

_Chapter_ 23

I had to get out of the sewers to cool my head. I just don't understand _why_ he's doing all this. The issue with the Guild is simple enough; to force them to acknowledge his expertise, greed, but he didn't need to stab me and take _my_ stuff to accomplish that. He's systematically taken the materials I care about most, but for what? Wanting to keep the Skeleton Key makes sense, but what use does he have with a possessive blade and a refillable soul vessel? More importantly, he could have simply _asked_ and I would have been happy to assist in whatever he would have needed. This entire time, I thought we were on the same page.

_Upset_ is not a strong enough word to describe how I'm feeling.

If nothing else, Honeyside has not been burglarised. I sit myself down on my desk - this house needed a serious redesign when I moved in, and it is now largely open and clutter-free - and pull open a book, Darkest Darkness. I honestly don't agree with their needless classifications of "good" and "bad" Daedra, but it at the very least diverts some of my attention from other less than pleasant matters. I need to calm down. Cain will be back from Riftweald, and tomorrow I'll be closer to sorting this entire thing out.

I just need to make it through the night.

Time passes and I'm beginning to doze off in my chair. I can't even remember the last time I slept well; likely before I left for Whiterun all that time ago. I know I won't be able to relax for a while; I have to be patient a little longer and this will all be dealt with.

I'm forcefully jerked awake as a dagger is driven straight through my right hand, blade embedding itself in the oak desk underneath. _Now what_. The adrenaline now coursing through me makes pulling the weapon out with my free hand a relatively painless task. I'll have to do something to kerb the bleeding, eventually, but a silly street thief should be no real challenge. I promptly rise from my seat, rotating on my heel to bring the weapon in front of me in a wide arc. I'm in _no_ mood to deal with annoyances right no-

My attack is stopped, but how? I can't see anyone, or anything in the way, yet I can't push the dagger any further through the air. It's almost exactly like a barrier, but that's impossible; the only person I know of who can pull them off at will is, well, _myself_. A gloved hand wraps itself in my hair, pulling my head firmly in view of the attacker.

"It's a _very_ nice trick." A fist strikes out with considerable force at my stomach and I double over, winded. I don't make it very far, however, as Mercer drags me by the hair and I'm slammed into a wall. "Just when I think you've _finally_ come after me, it's actually that blockhead rummaging through my manor." Everything that comes out of his mouth only makes me angrier. I'm seriously considering spiking him and getting this over with; I'd never get my artifacts back, but at least I'd be rid of the most infuriating man in Tamriel.

"Damn it Mercer, _what_ do you want?" He pulls back slightly, scowling. I'm fuming as he searches my face for.. s_omething._ He looks almost perturbed; I'm far too enraged to even begin to figure out what he might be thinking.

"You still don't get it."

"Get wh-"

I don't even have a moment to react before he crashes his lips against my own. The hand still tangled in my hair prevents any form of escape as he bites down on my lower lip, tongue all but _demanding_ access to my mouth. His insistent probing as he pulls my body sharply against his raises gooseflesh along my spine, scorching warmth coiling in the pit of my stomach.

No, _no_. Focus.

The lightning bolt is much stronger than usual, fuelled by my own blood. The wound on my hand will never fully heal now, - though I'm saved from losing any more blood - but seeing Mercer thrown unceremoniously against the far wall makes it almost worth it. Stray shocks prevent any prompt recovery on his part as I cross the room, straddling his hips as either hand pins his wrists to the ground, two conjured shackles holding them in place. My left hand is braced against his lower abdomen, unconsciously sending occasional bolts of lightning through his form. Heart pounding in my ears, hands trembling, tunnelled sight, seeing red; I am _furious_.

"What in Oblivion is _wrong _with you?!" I'm all but shouting at him, barely being able to register my own voice. Words simply pour out; I don't even know what exactly I'm yelling about. "-I don't even _care_ about what you did to the Guil-" Just as I'm beginning to calm down, I take note of something; a latent firmness, pressing against my seat. My eyes jump from his face, to my left hand, incredulous. I belatedly realise in open mouthed horror that I had been steadily shocking him, just shy of his groin, this _entire time. _

I am a colossal moron.

Some time passes during which neither of us move. I've become hyperaware of his breathing, the heat exuding from every slope of his body; even while his face gives nothing away the signs of his arousal are impossible to conceal. Soon I'm _laughing_; it's deep, low, and incredibly unnerving. My eyes rake over the restrained figure under me and I lick my lips, the corners pulling upwards into a perverse leer.

"Not the best of positions you're in, _Master Frey_."

My body moves on its own, hands undoing laces, pulling material aside to expose his chest. It's surprising, finding an amulet - the ends of three Guild symbols forming an inverted triangle, joined with two circles - around his neck. I'll save that conversation for another time. His breath hitches against my palms as they move along his body, fingers tracing old scars, releasing tiny bolts of lightning in their passing. Sharp nips along his neck before taking the path of my hands, lips catching heated flesh, the long-healed remnants of Karliah's devastating arrow. Stability and stoicism, void; the ever increasing breaths, skin dancing along my fingertips are but the beginnings of his undoing.

One hand continues south, busying itself with more fastenings as the other splays itself over his stomach, slightly below the navel. Five bolts, one from each finger, each one assaulting a different nerve ending and his entire body jerks outward, releasing a barely stifled groan. The reactions are _delicious_; I have to take a few stabilising breaths to retain my composure. Lips travel down, stinging bites along his now exposed waist, hip, as a hand retrieves his length in steady, languorous strokes. His breathing is now easily audible, erratic, bound limbs clenched into fists. I send another course of lightning through his form, just to admire the reception before settling at my prize.

I'm rewarded with scarcely muffled grunts, reflexive jolt of hips each and every time I take him into my mouth, lips and tongue working in tandem to lave every surface, every inch of his pulsating heat. A hand is wrapped around his base, matching the pace, controlled bursts of magic forcing half-formed moans from his throat, eyes rolling back into his head. Soon, he's pushing back with ever increasing urgency, but my hands quickly sense his limits, leading him to the precipice but never allowing completion. As I pull my lips away, he's all but glaring murder in frustration.

"Now that I have your attention," the hand on his torso trails idle sparks in order to keep him teetering on the edge, "_where_ is my Star." It isn't a question.

"Pants. Left leg." Voice several octaves lower than normal; he's practically _snarling_. I bet he'd love to have his hands back right about now. I fish through his pockets, reclaiming the Star and throwing it in the general direction of my bedroom.

"My research?" My tongue runs lightly along his shaft.

"R-riftweald." I have to hold back a shudder; I'm enjoying this _far_ too much.

"And the Ebony Blade?" Fingers brush his length, slowly mounting the pressure once more.

"Irkngthand-; five days." I let out a small hum of approval before returning to my ministrations, ramping up the intensity without warning. Mercer's cries are music to my ears as I feel his body tensing under my fingers. Seconds before he's over the edge, I send one last wave of magic through him and it's over, body arching with one final thrust. I drink every drop of his release as he comes down, idle tremors racking his form. Even when undone his movements are graceful, refined.

I pull away as he starts to collect himself. The bindings dissolve and I crack my knuckles, smiling to myself. "Well, I feel _much_ better. I think I'll head to Riftweald to get my books ba-" My legs are pulled out from under me and my back hits the floor. Mercer collects my wrists in one hand, pinning them above my head.

"That's it?" He's scowling, once again looking quite agitated. I can't even begin to know what he wants _now_.

"You got what you wanted," he scoffs at my choice of words but doesn't release me, "and I know where my stuff is; what's the problem?" Mercer lets out a deep breath, clearly exasperated.

"Every single one of your abilities revolve around keeping things _away_ from you," now it's my turn to frown; I don't like the way this conversation is heading. "You could have released me when you were miles away, could have turned me in; even murdered me if you really wanted to," I'm frantically searching for some kind of escape, but his free hand grips my jaw, forcing me to face him. "Yet, here we are."

"This isn't necessary..," There's no hiding the break in my voice. He's smirking, face close, _far too close_.

"That's not a _no_." Damn it. _Damn it._ He knows. _Of course he knows_.

"No." I resign. "No it isn't."

I'm hoping that the unseemly whine did _not_ just come from me as his lips are once again pressed to mine. He is unrelenting, viciously claiming my mouth, making my eyes shutter closed as I unwittingly writhe against him. Breathing becomes progressively shallower, small whimpers caught in my throat as he trails acute bites along my jaw, down my neck. His lips latch onto the skin where neck meets shoulder, marking a small bruise in its wake.

"I.., wouldn't mind having my hands back." The voice that leaves my throat sounds _nothing_ like me; it's suddenly incredibly difficult to speak in coherent sentences. Mercer tsks, shaking his head with a thoroughly smug look on his face.

"Can't really trust you with them," threading two leather strips I didn't even know he had around my wrists, he ties them securely together, "can I?" I'm pulled off the ground, then subsequently off my feet as he heads towards the basement. My body may as well be a sack of potatoes, as far as he's concerned.

I'm immediately regretting having set up a low hook on the ceiling, - for mounted targets, lamps; positioned slightly farther than arm's length from the wall - as my bound limbs are hung off it. My toes barely brush the ground and the ties dig into my flesh, but I'm very much occupied with other concerns, mouth going dry as Mercer lazily removes his gloves. He pulls out another dagger, - who knows where he even keeps them all - idly fingering the tip as he looks me over. I'm trying to think of something, _anything_ else as he closes the distance, making short work of my robes. I would be seriously wondering why I even bother picking out ones I like, with the rate they're being rendered unwearable, if I weren't distracted by the cool brush of metal, slowly ghosting over my skin.

"A lot more scars than I expected." He wants to have a _conversation_ while we're doing this. It's flustering enough with all the _touching_ and the _proximity_, but now he expects me to _respond_ to his burnished cadences; so much for keeping my composure. His fingers brush over the slash running along my left thigh: the first of many never-closing injuries sustained through my blood research. He presses against it inquisitively, tapping me on the shoulder for a response.

"First time casting with blood," it was well into my youth, but the gash is fresh enough to be even weeks old. "They'll never fully heal."

"So your hand-," he kneels down, face level with my abdomen.

"-Is going to have a dagger-shaped wound through it forever, yes." The idea doesn't bother me as much as it probably should. "It was worth it, though." I chuckle to myself. It's short-lived, however, as Mercer runs his tongue over the scar, forcing me to bite back a whine. He moves higher, lips leaving errant marks along the skin before settling at the much rawer laceration at my waist. He, of course, knows the story behind this one.

"Must have been painful," he latches onto the still mending wound, sucking firmly on the irritated flesh.

"Pain-," I let out a long, steadying breath, "not really an issue for me." His lips pull into a wry smile against my skin. His attentions move behind me, licking along my spine, shoulder blades. The dagger slices through what's left of my smallclothes, planting another bruise at the back of my neck.

"You know what's missing," he's practically purring in my ear; I screw my eyes shut, knowing that he can't quite see my face, "something that marks you as the _new_ Guildmaster." The blade presses against my lower back, just shy of the right hip. Free hand pulling the skin taught, he slowly - oh so slowly - carves the Guild insignia into the once unmarred flesh. Deep breaths, scantly audible whimpers hitch as digits press into his handiwork, the searing melange of pleasure and pain spreading, throbbing.

Eyes snap open as he pulls my body flush against his chest, free hand firmly tweaking a nipple between his fingers. I grit my teeth, eyebrows knit together in an almost futile attempt to suppress my reactions. The urge to arch into his hand grows ever stronger the longer he continues. Focus. _Focus_.

"You're far too stoic for your own good." He's moved in front of me, calloused hands travelling along my torso, the mounting anticipation threatening my heart break free of its bone cage. I bite down onto my lower lip as a single finger brushes against the entrance, relinquishing a shuddering moan as it slowly, deliberately inches inside. The hand on my jaw forces my gaze as he works the digit in and out, thumb teasing my nub with each alternate stroke. At the addition of a second finger my mind goes blank, scarcely restrained cries filling the room as he intensifies the unwavering assault. Senses clouded in an oppressive haze, eyes unfocussed, the only sensation is _Mercer_ surrounding wave after wave of crashing pleasure. It won't be long now, and he knows it, bringing his face just inches from my own.

"_Now_." The command sends me tumbling over the edge, vision blurring, crying out in a voice I'd never recognise as my own. My forehead drops onto his shoulder, fluttering sobs leaving my lips as he the draws out the orgasm. Wrapping my legs around his waist, he cuts the bindings, supporting the weight as my arms come to rest across his shoulders. One, two steps and my back is pressed against the wall, identical sighs punctuating our joining.

Flesh on flesh, fingers through hair, lips on neck, jaw; biting, scraping, _claiming_. Growls, moans, whimpers; barely formed admissions, names, lost to ecstasy before taking shape. Sparks, magic, frenzied motions augmented with ever increasing urgency, yearning for continuation yet chasing completion. All sense of temperance, prudence lost to wild, searing abandon. Bodies tensing, teeth sinking into already tender flesh, arms, hands grasping for dear life as we unwind, plunging into Oblivion.

* * *

"What is that branding around your arm, anyway." The plot and preparations for Irkngthand are clear. Mercer is wrapping bandages around my hand and wrists; unnecessary, though not unwelcome. There's a lot to do, and I'm honestly wondering why he's even still here.

"In exchange for the Mace; I may or may not be serving Molag Bal once I'm dead." I'm reminded of something, pulling away to rummage through drawers.

"Guess I'll have to storm Coldharbour to get you out." The misguided bravado makes me chuckle, though the connotations aren't quite as comforting as they should be.

"While I appreciate the gesture," returning in front of him, I take his right hand, cradling it between my own, "I actually prefer you _alive_." He's silent as I slide the ring along his middle finger, quirking an eyebrow smugly. "It's _enchanted_," I begin, rolling my eyes, "whenever something is coming towards you faster than a certain speed, this will block it." He hums in appreciation while looking it over. "Though I suppose you don't really need it anymore." I smile to myself as memory plays back the events of several hours prior.

"Time to go."

"_Finally_." I walk him to the door, going over the plans for five - four and a half, now - days time. "I'll see you soon."

* * *

A/N: Today's song: Binary by Assemblage 23 (Have ya' noticed the A23 kick I've been on lately).

And now I'm going to go and pass out because that was pretty much as difficult as running a marathon.

(And of course the longest chapter yet is the one full of smut, huehuehuehuehue)


	23. Chapter 24

_Chapter_ 24

I'm careful in picking out a set of robes with a mantle and hood before I set out. The bandaged hands are easy enough to cover up with gloves, - though having them on significantly limits my casting abilities - but my practically _ravaged_ neck is a completely different story; one I don't particularly wish to share with any nosy thieves. It's still early, so the bulk of the Guild shouldn't be awake as yet. I'm just about to step out as there's a knock on my door.

Well. At least I know it isn't Mercer.

"Good morning!" It's the Dragonborn. Very convenient. "Wow, this place looks completely different to when I sold it." He's as exuberant as ever as he welcomes himself inside. The satchel slung across his back is full to the brim, no doubt with things he stole from Riftweald. I offer what's left of the meal Mercer and I had - slaughterfish, eidar cheese, bread, Honningbrew - and he tucks in whole heartedly.

"So Master Frey's place," he begins, between bites, "actually didn't have anything very valuable." Still calling him _Master_ is a good sign. "I guess he's hiding all of his really priceless stuff somewhere else."

"Then what's in that bag of yours?"

"Oh, you'll love this," he turns the knapsack upside down, a rain of books - my books - pouring out onto the floor. "Did you even know the Guildmaster was into this kind of stuff? Aedra, Daedra, magic; I always knew he had a softer side." His resounding grin is more than enough confirmation of his continued affections. "Anyway, I figured that they'd have a better home with you than in a place he doesn't even visit." I thank and compensate him financially for the trouble. He doesn't need to know that the tomes are actually _mine_, and that he's effectively saved me a trip.

"You do understand that Mercer can't be Guildmaster any longer, yes?"

He sighs, lips pulling into a small pout; apparently this is the closest Cain can get to a frown. "Yeah. I _really_ don't want to kill him, though." He takes a sip of mead, eyebrows knit together in an attempt to gather his thoughts. "I know they'll send me to find him, Brynjolf and Karliah, once I report that he's going to be at Irkngthand in a few days."

"Karliah mentioned that she wants Mercer to feel how she did; being hunted by the Guild and all of its networks, life crumbling around him."

"Yeah, and she'd undo all of the progress the Guild has made this year to do it." Cain has invested a lot of time and effort in bringing the Guild back up to prominence, and the prospect of losing all that hard work is understandably upsetting. "Why would any of our Hold contacts want to continue supporting us if they found out that we can't even keep track of our own leader?" His moue deepens; the Dragonborn clearly doesn't enjoy thinking about people in a negative light. "I mean - I like Karliah and all, but it doesn't feel like she's thinking about the Guild, you know? She's been gone for twenty five years; things have changed, and her solutions just seem a bit..,"

"-outdated?" Cain nods.

"I just wish there were a way for everybody to get along." It's incredibly difficult to dislike this level of blind optimism.

"I don't think Karliah will be happy until Mercer's name is struck from every Guild contact." He's reacted to this entire ordeal exactly as Mercer predicted. "So I suppose it comes down to: would you sooner save the Guild, or undo everything and start from scratch?"

He spends some time mulling the situation over. "I'll try to convince Karliah not to spread word through the Guild networks until after Irkngthand. Maybe we can still salvage this; I know he can't come back, but surely we don't need to _kill_ him.." Perfect.

"Have you given any thought to who the next Guildmaster should be?"

"Actually, I was thinking you should do it," I put on my best quizzical look. "I really prefer following orders, and you're the only one in the Guild with any real _business_ sense; there isn't really anyone else who is both capable of organising everything _and_ willing to put in the work." His judgement is sound, and I've certainly given a great deal of consideration as to how I could utilise an ever growing organisation of thieves. "I know Brynjolf agrees with me; he feels terrible about leaving you out of the loop with this entire thing."

I shrug. "There are only so many things enchantments can assist with." Only Mercer really knows about the extent of my abilities, - most of which was out of necessity - and I prefer to keep it that way for now.

"Come on, it'll be great! You can direct all of the hard work, and I can be the public relations guy: dashing face of the organisation!" He beams, back in high spirits. Rising from his seat, he seems ready to make his way back.

"Let's head to the Cistern; I'm feeling much better about all of this."

* * *

As expected, I've been excluded from the proceedings as Karliah briefs the Dragonborn and Brynjolf on one more task before leaving for Irkngthand. From what Mercer mentioned, she probably wants to make them Nightingales in hopes of currying some favour with Nocturnal. I don't really see what pleading to a clearly absent Daedra could possibly do to help, but far be it from me to dismiss people and their spiritual leanings.

I make my way to Herluin's shop - he's the resident Alchemist in the Flagon - and pay him for some invisibility and waterbreathing potions. Alchemy's never been my strong suit, and despite having books on the subject matter, I'd prefer to be confident that the concoctions actually work. Given that all the merchants are still here, it's safe to assume that Mercer's betrayal is being kept a secret among the senior members for the time being. If word gets out that we're short a Guildmaster, we'll lose a lot more than just credibility; exactly what Cain - and I assume the others as well - want to avoid.

"Lass, a word?" We walk to the relative privacy of my workshop. "I just wanted to hear your thoughts on what we should do about Mercer." And here I was wondering how I would go about bringing up the issue before he set off.

"Mercer should really be the least of our concerns; what we need to be focusing on now is making sure that word of his treachery doesn't spread and elect a new Guildmaster as soon as possible." He nods, not so much in agreement as much as acknowledgement of my suggestion.

"I understand where you're coming from, but what if he comes back?"

"We can deal with him _if_ he turns up again; investing everything into tracking him down is a waste of resources, and exactly what he wants us to do. We know nothing about the extent of his abilities; engaging him directly will lead to more than just loss of face." He definitely agrees on that regard. One hand is at his chin, the other crossed over his chest as he synthesises the information at hand. "Of course, we should still move the vault elsewhere and keep the identity of the new leader anonymous."

"Karliah probably won't agree with you."

"Twenty five years is a long time. The sooner we can detach ourselves from the past, the sooner we can move on. If Karliah can't do that, then perhaps she is no longer suited to this organisation." Brynjolf's eyes narrow at the suggestion; he's surprised, but is certainly considering it. "Whatever happens in Irkngthand will be my responsibility. I just ask that you ensure she doesn't notice my following." I tap one of the invisibility potions in my hands.

"I hope you know what you're doing, lass."

"Yes, I believe this is the optimal solution."


	24. Chapter 25

A/N: Thar be some violence in this chapter, as well as some death, but really, if you've trekked through so far, no warning is going to stop you, is it?

* * *

_Chapter_ 25

Mercer breaking into my room in Candlehearth Hall notwithstanding, - I don't see how he couldn't have just _knocked_, like a reasonable person - we make it to Irkngthand in one piece. Rather than taking the front entrance inside, we circle around the nearby lake, heading into what I believe is Bronze Water Cave. Upon following the passage, the tunnel opens out, extending over quite a large cavern. The great statue of Irkngthand - a Snow Elf, made from a combination of dwarven and glass materials - is directly under the ledge before us. The chamber is lined with ore veins, glowing mushrooms, multiple pipelines, and there appears to be a heavy set of dwarven double doors at the far end.

"You don't _actually_ want to keep Karliah's head on your mantle, right? It would start smelling very badly very quickly."

"Figured you could laminate it somehow." The corner of his lip pulls up into a terrible approximation of a smile.

".. Was that a _joke_?" The world really is coming to an end.

My companion draws a longbow, shooting an arrow with rope tied to the lower shaft at the ground under us. Testing its sturdiness before throwing the rope over the ledge, I watch in amazement as he effortlessly climbs down, landing on top of the Snow Elf's crowned head. I stare over the edge, apprehensive. Nobody said that there would be _cave diving _involved. "It isn't going to climb itself," he calls out, obvious amusement in his voice. I can't believe he thinks this is _funny_, of all things.

Everything proceeds well, albeit slowly, as I carefully descend down the line. That is, until Mercer decides that he can't be bothered to wait the remaining few feet I have to go, grasping my ankle and yanking abruptly. The infuriatingly self satisfied smirk is back as I lose my grip, falling into his arms in an ungainly heap. _Honestly_, of all the pleasant, good natured people in Tamriel-

The information Mercer planted in Riftweald overstate his plans to hit Irkngthand, so we should have approximately half a day before Karliah and friends join us. Extracting the Eyes and replacing them with inexpensive replacements is the first task, not that I'm of much assistance; manual labour is obviously not my speciality. Once they're safely packed away, - I don't even know how he manages to carry all of these things around - we go about sweeping the ruins for treasure, rigging additional traps, and - myself, anyway, - trying not to alert the Falmer and trigger the various existing Dwemer snares. Soon, we arrive at the front entrance and it's time for us to split up. I hand him several waterbreathing potions, for which I receive the Ebony Blade in exchange.

"Your sword is terribly unwieldy."

"I _told_ you, it's _mine_. Clearly nobody else is meant to be able to use it proficiently." Mercer still isn't convinced, but our conversation is cut short by the faint sound of conflict coming from outside the building.

Exchanging glances, Mercer turns back into the ruin while I muffle my footsteps and down part of an invisibility potion, - I have more than enough to sustain the effect for several hours, if necessary - hanging back by the entrance. The objective at this point is a simple one: my associate leads the incoming group through the Dwemer structure, fooling them into thinking that he's just arrived and making them increasingly vexed at his upper hand. Meanwhile, I follow the party from the back, making sure none of them get themselves killed and maintain my position for the latter stage of the plan.

For a group of "master" thieves, they aren't the best at being discreet. It's likely due to having to travel in a group; both Cain and Brynjolf prefer fighting at short range and would sooner sneak past any adversaries, but Karliah would rather take down enemies from afar, - she even aimed to snipe Mercer on multiple occasions, not that she would have been successful - effectively alerting the other Falmer in the general vicinity. I'm sure they're all thoroughly capable on their own, simply unsuited, as well as unacquainted, with working together. Brynjolf checks over his shoulder on multiple occasions, probably in an attempt to spot me, but with their combined efforts at clearing out the Falmer and my steady supplement of potions, I don't think he's had much success.

They're soon approaching the final chamber. Mercer lets himself into the inner sanctum, closing the heavy doors behind him loud enough to rouse one final group of Falmer. Karliah and company are hot on his trail, cutting through the remaining adversaries before following over the threshold. They leave the gate open in their haste, making it easy for me to slip in undetected. Mercer is facing the statue, feigning awe for what he intends to loot.

"He's here, and he hasn't seen us yet." Karliah threads her bow, firing an expertly aimed arrow in her enemy's direction. Mercer has turned around by the time the shot leaves her fingers, my ring bringing the projectile to a halt half a foot from his left eye. He plucks the arrow out of the air, snapping it like kindling in his hand. _Mercer and his theatrics._

"Karliah, when will you learn you can't get the drop on me." I pull the doors closed behind me, which is Mercer's cue to collapse the ledge that the four of us are standing on, and also prepare a spell for eventual use on Brynjolf. He jumps down to level ground at the foot of the statue, directly in front of the thieves. The trio quickly assume fighting stances, readying their weapons.

"We don't have to do this, Master Frey," Cain is _still_ trying, how adorably quaint. "Just leave the Eyes, and we'll let you go..," Amongst the tension, my invisible positioning in the two o'clock direction of the Guild party, forming a flat triangle between myself, Mercer, and the group, goes unnoticed.

"No!" Karliah interrupts, enraged. It's a shame, hearing her lightsome tones tainted with so much hatred. "We have to finish him, _now!_"

"I apologise." The illusion shatters as two spikes leave my uncovered hand, one piercing the Dunmer's right shoulder, the other her left thigh. Mercer is on her immediately, a blur as his left dagger embeds itself in her side, broadsword rending her head clean off her shoulders before anyone is granted a moment's feedback. I take a step forward, drawing my own blade and pointing it directly at my associate. "The Guild is no longer suited to either of you." Cain immediately tries to put himself between us but is tackled to the ground by Brynjolf, suffering the effects of Mercer's spell. Cain, as expected, holds his own, but is unable to quell the grip on his ally as Brynjolf voices pleas of apology; _"I can't control myself!"_ and other equally amusing remarks.

Outside hindrances detracted for the time being, Mercer's lips are pulled into a snarl, eyes barely visible through thinning slits. He trails his sword along the stone, footwork matching my own. "Should have killed you when I had the chance."

"I'd have gotten better."

It's a dance, one we've practiced many times, only today performing for an audience. A flurry of spines leave my fingertips, knowing full well that not one of them will reach their target. My opponent closes the distance, bringing his dwarven blade down in a vertical arc. The clash of steel on steel as the attack is blocked, free hand reaching out to strike his abdomen with a bolt of lightning. Staggered, I take the opportunity to aim the blade towards his shoulder, lunging forward to pierce. He elegantly removes himself from its trajectory, pulling me forward by the neck before landing a kick which knocks me several feet across the room. I have a barrier up before he can bring his sword through flesh, its detonation bursting one of the dwarven pipes lining the room and pushing Mercer back in the direction from which he came.

The foundations of the chamber crumble around us, the water collecting in the bottom of the gorge steadily increasing. Our skirmish takes to higher ground, along the stairs on the arm of the Snow Elf, the projectiles leaving my hand dislodging debris, leaving dents before cracking additional pipelines. Mercer disengages the spell on Brynjolf once the water reaches the chest of the great statue, - I want both of them alive - but they're in no position to reach us any time soon.

"Hang on, lass!" We're on the Snow Elf's collar, water rapidly collecting around our feet; we both know it's time to end this. Mercer purposely takes a dive, leaving himself open as I land a shallow slash across his chest which, should the spectacle be viewed from the correct angle, looks positively fatal. My free hand discharges one more barrier, throwing my opponent into the water, impact forcing the false Eyes out of their sockets. The ex-Guildmaster's body disappears under the water as I watch on, trying to ignore the abominable throbbing against my temples. The cavern is filling rapidly and I'm treading water by the time Cain and Brynjolf join me.

"We _need_ to go!" Cain signals towards the alcove which leads to the entrance of Bronze Water Cave, which we rush to traverse before it too is overflowing. Finally on dry land, we take a moment to rest.

"I'm sorry," I begin, turning to the Dragonborn. "I know you wanted to resolve things peacefully."

"No, I understand; you did what was necessary," he's pouting again, "it's the only way the Guild can move on." We spend some time sitting in silence before the conversation moves to Guild matters.

"Lass, given the circumstances, I think you'd be best fit to take over the role of Guildmaster." Cain punctuates Brynjolf's sentiment with a nod.

"I'm happy to accept, but I don't think everybody else will be keen on a leader who isn't a thief." The both of them are listening intently to what I have in mind. "Publicly, I think announcing Cain as Guildmaster is the best move, he's very well liked and is much better at dealing with people. I can direct Guild operations from my workshop through the both of you, but as far as everyone else is concerned, I'm simply the resident enchanter. I think, given the nature of recent events, we need to be discreet about who we do and do not trust." Neither of them appear to have any objections. "Oh, we should look into changing the location of the vault, as well."

"Doesn't Honeyside have a basement?" My stoic façade cracks for a split second of mirth. "We can probably set up a ladder between it and the sewers and store Guild merchandise there." Given how well today has gone, everything that happens from here on out is simply _indulgent_.

* * *

The ceremony was held mere hours after we arrived back at the Guild, though our return was delayed as we spent an additional night in Windhelm to regroup. It was decided that non-members would only be informed of the leadership change as necessary, and as such, the celebration was a small one, exultant and jovial between an already close knit group of partners in crime.

As the merrymaking dies down, everyone eventually retreats to their respective beds or places of lodging. I haven't been back home in about a week, and am looking forward to being back in familiar surroundings.

As I unlock my front door, abrasive hands abruptly pull me inside. An arm wraps around the small of my back while the door clicks shut, the increasingly familiar taste of steel, leather, and spirits assaulting my mouth. My fingers wind into his hair, returning the kiss with ardent fervour, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he lifts me off the ground.

"Welcome home, _Guildmaster_."

* * *

A/N: I honestly can't decide if this counts as Outlaw Couple or Unholy Matrimony. Or a very, very literal Masochism Tango. It's _sort of_ Sword and Sorcerer but not completely. Battle Couple, yes, I guess, sort of. Guh, someone take TV Tropes away from me before I get lost within its singularity.

Oh, today's song is Light, once again by Assemblage 23. It's really not my fault that I've managed to like basically every song from every album.

And yes, we will be getting back to the artifacty fun shortly.


	25. Chapter 26

_Chapter 26_

"You'll be pleased to know that they've decided to move the vault to my basement." Mercer lets out a crack of laughter as I clear the table of empty plates and bottles.

"Just as planned."

"_Please._ You were going to abandon them; a _complete_ waste of resources. It's just as well you had such a capable collaborator." He receives a small wink before I sit back down opposite, looking him over expectantly. "Speaking of which," I hold my right hand open in front of him, "the Skeleton Key." He lets out a small huff of feigned exasperation, -_"So obsessive."_ - reaching into a pocket before dropping the Key in my outstretched hand.

My vision blacks out, assaulted by spectacles, locations, people. A lone man, hunted under the full moon; caverns teeming with undead; olive liquid decaying stone. Priests, invaders, mired in an unending slumber; dark blood oozing from open wounds; metal shards lost to time. Figures morphed through treachery; the air itself slicing portals to liliaceous planes; skilled combatants locked in open conflict; blackness spreading like infection, drenching all in its taint.

The images leave as quickly as they arrived, pain pounding against my temples at any attempts at recollection. My eyes refocus on Mercer, who has removed the Key from me. His scowl is much more pronounced than usual; any deeper and his face just might crack in two. My expression mirrors his own as I reach for the artifact back.

"You're bleeding," pulling my hand away, I find that he's correct, blood collecting in last week's dagger wound, "and your eyes were pitch black while you held it."

Well. That's unexpected.

"So I take it the Key doesn't give you visions."

"No." _I don't believe you._

"It's always most intense the first time." I'm not even sure why I'm bothering to be reassuring, given that he's keeping information from me. The blood on my hand is much darker, more viscous than fresh, not to mention that the cut shouldn't even be bleeding in the first place. I suppose I should be a touch more concerned about it than I am. "I need more time with it to figure out what exactly I just saw, and to learn the enchantment." I leave my seat to clean the blood and wrap my hand in a fresh bandage.

"You're not getting the Key." _Yes, I am._

"It'll be on _loan_." Slipping between the table and Mercer, I sit on his lap, legs either side of his chair. My fingers busy themselves with the laces holding his shirt closed. "I can negotiate, my good thief."

* * *

Things return to some level of normalcy over the next few months. On the Guild front, Cain handles all the recruitment, communication and other people-managing tasks, while Brynjolf deals with most of the day to day operations and delegation of smaller assignments. That leaves my main responsibilities to include maintaining the ledger - apparently they really didn't learn anything from Mercer's betrayal - and the allocation of members and resources to longer term investments and projects. On the occasion that my grumpy associate is over, he provides information, maps, and tips on larger heists in exchange for a _reasonable_ cut. He even has his own line in the ledger: "independent informers".

Mercer leaves the Skeleton Key in my company for a few days at a time while he goes off to do whatever it is he does with himself; he could be breaking into religious institutions, or he could just be scrounging up enough money to cover his rent, for all I know. He's taken to wearing lighter, fitted clothing and long hooded cloaks in lieu of his old Guild armour, which I don't dislike. His Amulet of Articulation is with me, but I'd rather not wear it in case it's spotted by anyone that understands its significance.

The Skeleton Key is intriguing, to say the least. Physical contact with any of my old injuries brings about flashes of visions and unnatural bleeding, yet in my left hand it is, for all intents and purposes, simply an unbreakable lockpick. The latter was simple enough to learn without Mercer's assistance, and was initially my highest priority. With this new enchantment, I can incentivise interested thieves into completing more dangerous tasks, even send them after artifacts should I feel that pursing one myself isn't worth my time. I haven't made as much progress in regards to the visions, however, - the only thing I have managed to isolate is a figure in a blue tagelmust, standing before a golden cauldron, but there are no clues as to who or where he is - and my associate is more interested in engaging in other physical activities while he's visiting.

The Breton has a knack for timing his calls just as I'm at my mental limits, making the prospect of release incredibly difficult to resist. While his advances aren't unwelcome, I can't help but feel as if he purposely wants to keep me from my work. Ultimately it's my own failing for involving the less intellectual parts of me in the decision making process.

The knowledge bound by the Key is a vice, clawing at my mind even when the artifact itself isn't in my possession. I should be focussed on other tasks when I don't have access to the Skeleton Key, yet I find myself lingering, fruitlessly attempting to reproduce and clarify its messages.

"_Still_ working." Despite knowing that he can't surprise me, Mercer continues to insist on sneaking around in my house. I notice that he's wiping one of his daggers clean with a stray rag as I leave my seat to acknowledge his presence.

_Blood_.

The realisation hits me immediately, the first pieces of an infinite puzzle clicking into place. Stepping into his space, my left hand reaches into the pocket in which he keeps the Key, the right moving towards the blade in his hand. My index and middle fingers run across the sharpened edge, just firmly enough to draw blood. One, two drops; bright red, fresh, fall onto the sphere-topped handle and part of what I've been pursuing for months unlocks in mere seconds.

* * *

"The Guildmaster has sent you here because he believes you to be skilled, and capable of completing a task for me." I don't even know what the name of this thief is; my research has taken up the entirety of my spare time, and I've stopped making idle social calls, careful not to accidentally reveal any clues as to my identity or alliances. "It will be dangerous, and you are free to refuse, but in addition to _double_ your regular share, you will be rewarded with an incredibly powerful item."

She doesn't react as I place a seemingly ordinary lockpick on the table between us.

"An unbreakable lockpick," She shakes the hood off her head, revealing short, curled tendrils of dark blonde hair, "we can head to the training room for a demonstration, if you don't believe me." Muttering something of the negative, her voice is lightsome and barely audible. Taking it as enough indication of her interest, I drop a pouch of coins onto the desk.

"Head to the Shrine of Peryite, northwest of Karthwasten, and seek out the Khajiti priest who makes his home there. Your goal is to attain the Spellbreaker," I show her its likeness in one of my books, "by any means you deem necessary. Bring it back to me, and you will receive the remainder of your payment, as well as unlimited enchantments, whenever you see fit." Promises of such remunerations are difficult to resist, especially for those on the avaricious side, and it's no surprise when she takes the initial advance, pulling her hood back over her eyes, and subsequently taking her leave.

She had better be as proficient as Cain believes she is.

"Isn't she lovely?" Right on queue, our cheery Guildmaster is spending far too long observing the thief I just sent on the artifact hunt, as she walks with her back to him to the Flagon's exit. I am, however, glad that he has - at least outwardly - moved on with his affections.

"Well, she didn't really speak to me very much."

"That's because she doesn't _know_ you." The Dragonborn invites himself into my workshop, two bottles of mead in hand. "I'm getting pretty sick of receiving your orders via _letter_, when you live practically five minutes away, too." I glare at him to speak quietly, but he just waves me off. "If you ask any of the newer members, our resident enchanter is an old, sullen workaholic, who only makes public appearances for business."

"I apologise. I've been quite occupied."

"I can see that; you look like you haven't slept for months." There isn't really much I can say to that, I'm not of the habit of discussing my engagements. Some time passes as we drink in silence. "Listen, I've heard rumours about a talking dog in Falkreath."

"A talking dog." Nothing good comes from mixing mead with skooma, and I certainly hope the Imperial hasn't developed that as a new hobby.

"Come on, a change in scenery will be good for you!" He ushers me out of my seat and towards the Cistern. "Let's let Brynjolf know and be on our way; a talking dog will be more fun with the both of us, no?"

* * *

A/N: Well this took forever, didn't it?

I'm actually going to go through and rewrite, and possibly combine some of the older chapters. I don't intend to change any of what happens, more just polish the narration a little more and make it more consistent with the chapters I've written recently. Naturally this is going to slow down new chapter progress as well, so you have all of my love for bearing with me.


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